


mushaboom

by pantsoflobster



Series: this is not the house that pain built [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Asexual Character, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Parenthood, Teacher Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Weddings, a preemptive fix-it fic, all good, apocalypse solved, happy future AU, i love deluding myself it brings me comfort, jon is a secondary school history teacher
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 44
Words: 115,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25121395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsoflobster/pseuds/pantsoflobster
Summary: How do you build a life when you save a world you thought you'd lost?--An anthology of domestic moments set in a fantastically happy future, after the apocalypse has been stopped and Jon and Martin get to live out their days in a normal world.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: this is not the house that pain built [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683676
Comments: 802
Kudos: 966





	1. unframed memories

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve written so much in the last few months, just building my own little collection of moments as they popped into my head. they’ll be all over chronologically, so I’ll try to make note of where they land. 
> 
> A lot will involve their daughter, who first popped up in “this is not the house that pain built”. 
> 
> It's not necessary to read my previous fics, but future pieces will definitely build off of them more!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin finds some photos and reminisces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is set very far in the future, at least a year after their daughter goes to uni.

Last year, Jon got some photos printed for Martin’s birthday, something that was only more and more of a novelty and a pain to do as the years got on. He’d been thrilled, even though the gift came complete with a worn-out, loving dig at his retro sensibilities. 

He came across the envelope while looking for a pen in a kitchen drawer. He smiled to himself, realizing what it was, and took it to the living room to look through once more. 

It was a set of thirty, in no particular chronological order. First on the pile was one Martin loved dearly of Jon and Ellen on Bournemouth Pier. She’d have been three or four, so small and distracted, gazing off in the distance at a seagull, probably. Jon was knelt down on one knee to her height, smiling sweetly at the camera with an arm hooked around her small, wriggling frame. 

There were some more recent photos, a handful from their trip to Scotland the spring before Ellen started university, and one that she had just sent to them of her standing proudly at the summit of some hill she’d climbed on a hiking trip with friends. 

There were even some wedding photos in the mix, odd candid ones they’d never bothered to print before. Mixed in with these was a shot from Melanie and Georgie’s wedding the previous year, a very different ordeal from their minuscule garden reception. 

Below that one was a photo he hadn’t seen in years when he first opened the envelope on his birthday. 

It was the first photo taken of them in the new, normal world they’d saved. That also made it the first real photo of them as a couple taken by someone else, not by a phone in one of their own hands on a windy highlands hill. This night came perhaps about a month after the end of the end. It was so inordinately playful, snapped by who, he couldn’t quite remember. Probably Georgie. It was at her flat, anyway, with that ugly old sofa she got rid of not too long after when she and Melanie moved to Brighton. 

It was the first time they’d dared to enjoy themselves with friends without any kind of existential threat looming over, one very small step towards leaving that in the past. 

In the photo, Martin sat in the corner of the sofa and Jon was actually seated in his lap, arms thrown limp around his neck and his head propped against Martin’s, sporting the most easy and genuine smile it was possible to catch on Jonathan Sims. It was a miracle it was even recorded anywhere. Neither were looking at the camera, probably not even aware of it until after the picture was snapped. 

He remembered there’d been wine and laughter, games, and a conversational embargo on the apocalypse and any of the wretched business that preceded it. It was all so long ago that specifics blended together with the lifetime of nights like it that came after. 

Who knows what had made them laugh like that, faces dipped in toward each other as if their shared joy was a cunning conspiracy? He could imagine himself having protested something about Jon’s bony arse and receiving no sympathy from the offender, or perhaps he’d muttered a joke that caught Jon off guard, as easy as it was after a glass of wine. But the actual context of the photo was lost to history, unless Jon remembered. He’d have to ask. 

What he did remember in vibrant detail was what Jon said when they went home that night. They had moved into Martin’s old flat for the time being, before they figured out what to do for work and where to live and how things like that even worked in a world recovering from an apocalypse. 

Martin had been laying beside Jon in bed, staring at him staring at the ceiling. At some point, he’d let his eyes flutter closed because he remembered them jolting open when Jon spoke. 

“Do you want to get married?”

Martin barely registered the words. They came together one by one in his mind until the whole question was formed, flashing like a warning light. 

Somehow, he gathered enough wit to say, “Do you mean in general or are you asking?” 

Jon breathed a small laugh. “Well. Maybe a bit of both.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Yes.”

“I--well, um. Do you?” 

Jon was quiet for a moment.

“Yes. I mean, not now. Not yet. We need some time, I think. But I was just wondering about… your thoughts on the matter.”

Martin laughed, loving deeply that Jon could make a near-proposal sound like a cordial email. “Thought that much would be obvious.” 

Jon finally turned his head towards him with a small smile. “I don’t know everything anymore. I didn’t want to assume.” 

“Yes, Jon. I would like to get married someday.”

“Good,” Jon said. “Good.” A bit of silence passed. “You mean--”

“To you, Jon. Of course. Idiot.”

“Right,” Jon said, through an embarrassed smile. “I promise I’ll ask properly some time. I just wanted to be sure we’re on the same page.”

“And what if I ask you first?” he said, slyly lacing his hand with Jon’s where it laid on his own belly.

Jon groaned and craned his head back against his pillow. “Oh, please don’t make it a race. I wouldn’t win.”

“Precisely.” 

“Can’t you just let me do this for you?” Jon begged, shaking their joined hands lightly. “When the time is right? I’d like to be the one to--I’d like to.” 

“Fine,” he said, lifting Jon’s hand to his lips. “Take your time. I’ll be here.” 

He heard Jon coming down the stairs behind him but couldn’t tear his eyes away from the photo in his hand, even when Jon stopped behind the sofa and slipped his arms around his shoulders. He leaned down to press a lingering kiss to Martin’s neck, and then one to his cheek.

“Reminiscing?” Jon said, resting his head on top of Martin’s.

“Reminiscing about when your hair wasn’t all grey _just_ yet, is what I’m doing.” 

“Rude.” 

“You know how I feel about your hair. I’m just joking,” he said. He held up the photo. “Do you remember this?”

“Hm,” Jon said. “Yes, it was a very nice night. I look rather silly in that, though.” 

“You’re just smiling, Jon. God forbid you show signs of joy.” 

“But that’s not my normal smile.” 

“Yeah, exactly. It’s your unguarded one.” 

“It’s all--”

“Undignified?” Martin said, in his expert replication of Jon’s voice.

Jon leaned back, a bit ruffled. “Well. Yes.” 

Martin brandished the photo again. “Do you remember what you asked me that night?” 

“Can't say I do.”

“You asked me if I’d marry you.” 

Jon craned his head around to look at him like he was losing it. “That’s not true. That wasn’t that night at all! That wasn’t for at least a year.”

“No, you did,” he insisted. “It was the first time, the unofficial one.” 

Jon gave a slow, knowing nod as the memory came back. “Ah. I forgot about that.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, that much is clear.” They both looked quietly for a moment. “That is quite a nice memory, isn’t it? I was... just getting used to what it meant to have a life ahead of us.” 

“We all were,” Martin said. 

“Hm,” Jon said, finally coming around the sofa to join him. “I think I’ve just remembered why I asked you that.”

“What’s that?”

“That was the night Georgie told me she was planning to ask Melanie.”

“Really?” Martin said. “I’m not sure I knew that.”

Jon shrugged. “I must have told you later. It just sort of sent my mind spinning, that…” He waved his hand in the air vaguely. “All that was happening already.” 

“Wanted to make sure I hadn’t changed my mind after all that trouble?” 

“A bit,” Jon said with a small smile. 

“Well, it’s a nice photo, with a nicer story wrapped up in it,” Martin said. “Even though you look scandalously happy in it.”

Jon slid his arm around Martin’s neck and leaned closer, peering over at some of the other photos on the pile. “We’ll have to tell Ellen that one.”

“You can send her one of your late night email missives,” Martin suggested. Since Ellen went to uni, Jon developed a habit of writing her emails hundreds of words long in the wee hours of the morning when he had an article he wanted to share, or a story, or was just thinking of her and wanted to not feel so far away. It was very sweet, though he got the idea Ellen found it a bit comical. 

“I just might,” Jon said, catching Martin’s mildly mocking tone. “And you know what she’ll send back?”

“Just ‘cool’?” Martin said. 

“Yes,” Jon said. “Probably exactly that.”

“Might manage to get an ‘aw’ for this one,” Martin offered. 

“I can dream,” Jon said wistfully. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dad does that late night email thing. He’ll send me a picture or a movie scene and then a 250 word essay about it at like 1 AM on a weeknight. I read them and never respond. I think Ellen would at least humor Jon with a brief reply.


	2. caught staring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's the last time Martin lets Jon attends a social function for Ellen's class without him.

Jon prided himself on rising to the occasion for a lot of things parenting threw at him. The jokes from his friends and his husband about how shocking it was to see the Esteemed Jonathan Sims doing things like crouching on the ground with his daughter and playing pretend games about frogs who live in a castle had gotten quite tired out by now, seeing as Ellen was seven years old. The shock value had well since worn off. 

The one thing he simply couldn’t muster any ounce of patience for was children’s parties.

He hated them all, from the backyard free-for-alls to the highly structured, lavish displays of the parents’ abundant funds and resources. And don’t even get him started on the parents, turning events for their children into social soirees, thinly veiled excuses to boast their own domestic prowess. 

Martin agreed that they weren’t exactly the most glamorous events of the year, but frankly, he got on with other parents better than Jon did. He often coaxed Jon to join him in an effort to appear as a strong family unit, but sometimes, Jon managed to wriggle his way out of the obligation.

Word came that a family with a particularly lavish home in Chelsea was throwing an end of the year celebration for Ellen’s whole class, for both the children and the parents. It was set for the Saturday before the last week of school. 

“Oh, that’s the same day as the exhibit opening. I’ve already committed to working that,” Martin said. 

Jon snapped his head up. “So you can’t go?”

“No, you’ll have to brave this one alone, I’m afraid.” Jon stared speechless, and Martin rolled his eyes. “Oh, you’ll be fine.” 

“Do you think I have to stay the whole time?” 

Martin sighed. “It would probably be nice to, but you could always drop her off and make some excuse about errands after a bit.”

Jon gave a thoughtful hum, but noticed the look in Martin’s eye that told him he’d prefer Jon to stay and make a good impression. 

The morning of the event, Martin had to be up and ready long before Jon, but he followed him downstairs to see him off anyway. Ellen was presumably still asleep, but more likely she had woken with the sun and was reading to herself until she felt like making an appearance. 

“I cannot think of a more miserable way to spend an afternoon than at a children’s party without you,” Jon said, stirring his bowl of cereal at the kitchen counter as Martin shrugged on his jacket. 

“Oh, come on,” Martin said. “We’ve had some _really_ miserable afternoons.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Sorry, let me rephrase. Days of eldritch evil notwithstanding, I can’t think of a more miserable way to spend an afternoon.”

Martin took his face in his hands and looked at him the way he looked at their daughter when she got into something she shouldn’t have. “My love,” he said. “You will be fine. It’s just a few hours and then it’ll be over. Just find someone nice to talk to and do your best. Alright?” 

He grumbled a nonverbal response and Martin gave him a quick kiss. 

“I’ll see you tonight.”

“If I survive,” Jon lamented.

Martin clucked his tongue. “Oh, would you--I’m leaving. Goodbye.”

“I love you,” Jon called. 

“Love you,” Martin shouted back, followed by the clatter of the door falling shut behind him. 

All too soon, Jon found himself sitting in the back garden of a garish home much bigger and better-kept than theirs. Jon hated the couple, the desperate, materialistic social climbers that they were, but Ellen got on with their daughter quite well and it wasn’t the child’s fault her parents were so insufferable, after all. 

He spent the first twenty minutes or so hanging awkwardly in the shining white kitchen with a cup of tea in his hands, seeing no one he recognized enough to sidle up to their conversation. Martin had an unnatural ability to strike up small talk with just about anyone, something Jon not only felt incapable of but took a rather moral stance against doing himself. 

“Where’s your husband?” one of the mothers asked. Jon had never committed her name to memory, nor that of the woman she was standing with. That’s what Martin was for. 

“He, ah… He had a work commitment,” he said. 

“We’ve never seen you without him!” the other said. “We were just saying we hoped everything was alright.” 

“Oh, yes. Just fine,” Jon said, with a nod he hoped came off pleasant. 

“Oh, good. What does he do, again?” she asked. 

“He’s with the British Library. There was an exhibition opening today, he, ah… He had a hand in putting it together. It’s rather fascinating,” Jon said, beginning to go into the details of the exhibit which Martin had helped curate. A bit too late, he noticed the polite disinterest on the faces of both women. He trailed off unceremoniously. 

“Well, that’s interesting,” one of them offered. “Right, well, feel free to join us outside!” 

“Oh--um, thank you. I will,” he said as they turned for the door. He followed them out and took a seat at the uncomfortable glass patio table, large enough that it was barely conducive to socializing at all. The two women slotted right into an ongoing conversation between friends of theirs. Jon quickly resigned to finish his cup of tea in silence rather than trying to add his two cents on the topic of making the most of a Mediterranean cruise with children.

The seat Jon took positioned his back to the yard, so he couldn’t even watch the children’s goings-on. And he’d just sat down, he could hardly up and change seats now. It would appear as if he'd so quickly lost interest in the conversation beside him that he had to put physical space between himself and them. Which was partly true, but not his main motivation for moving. 

He twisted around to do a quick scan of the event, spotting Ellen playing with a few of her friends. He smiled at the shrieks and laughter, a herald of the carefree summer months to come. Just as he turned back to his cup of tea, his eye was caught by someone else’s.

A man at the other end of the table was staring at him point blank. The look on his face was one of confusion, maybe distaste, and mild horror. He quickly looked away when Jon caught him, his jolt earning a question from his wife, to whom he leaned over and whispered something curt. His eyes flickered back to Jon, and his wife looked up at him as well. 

At first, Jon looked away embarrassed. But when he glanced back a moment later to find the man staring again, he lost all will to maintain civility. He wasn’t in any mood for pleasantries in the face of this sort of thing. It was just exhausting at this point when other adults didn’t possess the levels of maturity required to resist visibly reacting to Jon’s scars. 

Petty spite took over and Jon resolved to serve the man the very same treatment. He crossed his arms casually and stared back, maybe even tilting his chin up a bit to make the scar from Daisy’s knife a bit more visible. It wasn’t long before the man uncomfortably got up and excused himself into the house. 

Jon smiled to himself for the small social victory of unsettling an unconscientious wanker. He considered the afternoon a success, after all.

“This man was staring at me like I killed his mother,” Jon explained later that night, after Ellen had gone to bed. 

“Who was he, again?” Martin asked, pulling on the ratty old T-shirt he slept in.

“I don’t know who he was. One of the parents, I don’t know which child. Maybe the one that lives on Hawthorne? I haven’t a clue, but he was staring at me without an ounce of shame. It’s absolutely astounding.” 

Martin sighed. “You’d really think people in this day and age would know better. But I guess some things never change.”

“It was an awful crowd, anyway. I can’t believe you left me to face them alone,” Jon pouted. 

Martin climbed into bed beside him. “But you did survive.” 

“Barely. I got _stared_ at.” 

“Oh, poor you,” Martin said, pinching his chin between finger and thumb. “Former avatar of a big, scary eye monster gets stared at for five minutes, you poor little dear.”

Jon batted his hand away. “Unfair.”

“A bit,” Martin said, reaching over again to ruffle his hair with a less mocking touch.

“Seriously,” Jon said. “It’s astonishing when children have a better handle on basic human decency than their parents.”

“You’re telling me. You should have heard some of the pretentious questions I fielded today,” Martin said, settling in to recount his own day. 

  
  


Jon made his way over on Monday afternoon to pick Ellen up from school. The energy around the schoolyard only got rowdier as the summer crept closer, and Jon wrapped his arms around himself as he waited for her to come out. There was a reason he elected to teach secondary school rather than younger grades. 

Soon enough, he caught the sight of a familiar bouncy ponytail and backpack barreling towards him, stopping short right at his feet. 

“Hello, my dear,” Jon said, leaning down to kiss the crown of her head.

Ellen greeted him with a cheerful, “Hi, Dad!” and they were off down the block towards their home. 

“How was your day?” he asked as they began walking.

“Good,” she said, like always.

“Glad to hear it. Learn anything interesting?”

She nodded. “Today, Brian said that his dad said that my dad freaks him out.”

That wasn’t quite what he’d been expecting to hear. “He--he said that?”

She nodded. “He said that his dad said he has bad dreams about my dad. And he said it was my little dad, so I know it was you and not Dad,” she chattered. She seemed entirely unoffended by the sentiment. 

Jon was struck speechless by a confluence of things, least important being the question of whether this small child had branded him Ellen’s “little dad'' or if that was also repeated language from the parents. The bigger issue was that it became all too apparent he’d made a rather inconvenient mistake.

“Did he… Did he say anything else?” he asked. 

She shrugged. “He just said his dad had dreams about you and they’re scary. It was funny.” 

“Funny?” 

“Yeah,” she giggled. “You’re not scary. It’s funny that his dad is scared of _you_.” 

He huffed a relieved laugh before the implications of this new information hit him again. As much as he needed to tell Martin, he wondered idly how long he could put it off.

That night, when they settled into bed, Jon stared at the ceiling and steeled himself. “So…” he began. “Ellen told me today that… ah. Well. Remember when I told you how that man was staring at me at the Hudsons’ party?”

“Mhm.” 

“Well. On our walk home today, Ellen said that the man’s son told her that… Oh, god.” He wedged his hands under his glasses and covered his eyes before he could continue. 

“What?” Martin said, sounding more concerned than was necessary.

Jon rubbed his eyes and returned his gaze to the ceiling. “Apparently he was staring because he’d seen me in his dreams.” 

Martin’s eyes widened, his jaw gone slack. “No shit,” he said. “Must’ve been years ago, I’d imagine?”

“I don’t know, there… weren’t many details available, of course,” Jon said. “But I think I might have made matters worse.”

Martin gave him a withering look. “What did you do?”

“I, uh… at the party, when I saw him staring, I… You know. I thought he was staring at my scars, so I went a bit petty and I stared right back.”

Martin was silent for a moment. “Jon, you didn’t.”

“I… Yes. I stared right back.”

“For how long?”

“Well… A good moment. Until he got up and walked away.” 

“You stared at him until he _ran away?_ ”

“He didn’t run!” Jon protested. “He… he just politely went inside.”

Martin took a deep breath, looking just about ready to break into hysterics. “So let me just get this straight. This man, at some point in the past, experienced a supernatural trauma that haunted his nightmares, where he was frequently visited by the spooky Archivist fairy and years later, he’s sitting there, minding his own business at a primary school function, only to find that creepy man from his nightmares is _there,_ in the flesh, giving him death glares from across the patio?”

Jon groaned and covered his face with a throw pillow. “How in _the world_ was I supposed to know?” 

Martin broke into peals of laughter. “You wouldn’t,” he said, wiping his eyes. “That’s what makes it so funny.” 

Jon looked at him, horrified. “It’s not funny at all! I already traumatized this man once against my will, and I just went and made it seem _entirely_ intentional. What’s he to think?” 

“He might be thinking right about now that you single-handedly brought that old apocalypse upon the world.”

Jon stared, unamused. 

“Alright, I’m joking. Sorry, sorry,” Martin said, not sounding very sorry. 

Jon groaned again. “What a nightmare,” he said, quickly regretting it and adding, “ _Don’t,_ ” when he saw the glint in Martin’s eye.

“You ridiculous harbinger of doom,” Martin said, leaning over him and attempting to spot his face with kisses. Jon leaned away miserably and tried to bat him off to no avail. “I love my spooky husband,” he said, landing kisses on the cheek he could manage to reach. 

Jon made a disgusted noise. “I’m going to haunt _your_ nightmares tonight,” he threatened.

“You wish you could.” 

“I don’t, actually.”

“Sure you don’t want to hop on over?”

“ _Quite_ sure.” 

Martin pressed a final kiss to his cheek and then relented. 

“Do I have to do something about it?” Jon asked. “Do I--do I apologize?”

“And how would you go about that? ‘So sorry for staring, I didn’t realize you’d encountered a supernatural manifestation of dread in the past?’”

“I just don’t want…” Jon said. “I don’t know. I don't want _that_ getting around. What if it sparks someone else’s memory and then suddenly all the school’s parents are realizing they used to have nightmares about Ellen Blackwood’s father?”

“Well, it can hardly be _all_ of them.” 

“ _Martin._ ”

“Alright, I’m sorry. For real,” he said. “I don’t mean to make light of it. I know you feel bad. I just… I just really can’t believe you stared back.” He dissolved into another fit of shameful giggles.

“Martin!” 

He got a hold of himself and his expression softened. “Look, Jon, you didn’t _actually_ do anything wrong, and he’s probably justifying it to himself a million ways. I doubt he thinks he actually dreamed up a person he hadn’t met yet. Probably telling himself his memory is playing tricks on him, you know?”

Jon grumbled a wordless response, arms crossed across his chest in defense. Martin reached over and gently tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. 

“I sort of think you might just have to laugh at yourself on this one, love.”

“I think you’ve been doing plenty of that for the both of us,” Jon huffed. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin laughed again. “But I’m serious. I don’t think you can confront the guy about it. That’s just a can of worms that doesn’t need opening.”

“Well, that’s relieving, because I’d rather not.” 

“Just chalk this one up as a comedy of errors?” 

“Sure,” Jon said, allowing a smile to creep in. “Fine.” 

Martin’s smile twisted into something wicked. “Now, can I _please_ call Georgie and tell her? Because she will cry.”

Jon sighed and retrieved the throw pillow from his side so he could hide through the impending phone call. “Do whatever you want. I can’t stop you.”

“No, you sure as hell can’t,” Martin said, gleefully grabbing for his phone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon has grown a lot but he is forever a bitch at heart  
> This ordeal definitely gets brought up to Martin at a function years later and he has to do damage control without laughing


	3. marry me a little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snippet of Georgie and Melanie's wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idgaf what’s about to happen in 176 this week, this whole deal is a preemptive fix-it fic. everyone is fine

“Got your eye on someone?” 

Jon jumped only to realize it was just Georgie who had dropped into the seat beside him.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” she laughed, gathering the ample white fabric of her gown out of the way. Now that his mind had caught up to the moment, he squinted at her original question. 

“Was that a joke?” 

Georgie shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s my day, so you can’t tell me off for it.” 

Jon glanced back in the direction of the dance floor, where he had just been watching Martin turning Melanie around and swaying to an old 80s ballad Jon knew he loved. They sat together for a moment saying nothing at all, the kind of comfortable silence they often fell into with each other. He was hit by a sudden pang of guilt on this occasion, as he became all too conscious of mismanaging much-coveted time with the bride. He turned toward her and was briefly taken by the sight of her again, stunning in white with small flowers pinned in her hair. 

“I’d venture to guess you have many other more important guests vying for your attention right now.”

“Hmm,” she said. “They can wait.” 

Jon huffed a small laugh and nodded. “I’m, ah… Truly honored to have been such a part of your day today. Thank you.” 

“Thank you,” Georgie said in return, quiet and earnest. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m really happy for you,” he said. 

Georgie leaned her elbows on the table and put her chin in her hands. “Well, I’m really happy for you.” 

Jon shook his head, bemused. “What has anything got to do with me?” 

“Nothing. Again, my day. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be happy for you.” 

“Well,” he said. “Save all that for my day.” 

“That’s what I mean, Jon!” she protested. “ _You’re_ getting married. You’re happy, you’re mostly settled, you’ve stopped trying to self-implode at every turn… I’m proud of you.” 

Jon gave her a skeptical look. Wine always made her extra sentimental, but the sentiments were usually genuine. He melted to a sheepish smile and a nod in thanks.

The comfortable silence returned and Jon’s gaze drifted back to the center of the room. He wondered if he was supposed to keep urging her to visit with other guests. There were people here who got to spend a lot less time with her on a regular basis than he did, after all. He glanced back at her and saw she was staring at him in an odd way. 

“Can you imagine going back in time and telling us in uni about the last few years?” she said. 

Jon laughed. “All things considered, I think I’d be surprised that not only are you still talking to me, but you deigned to let me in your wedding party.” 

“Think I’d be most surprised that you managed to fall in love with an actual dream of a man and haven’t ruined it yet.” 

Jon shook his head with a smile. “That is quite the surprise.”

Georgie laid her head on his shoulder and let out a contented sigh. He stiffened for only a second; even after all this time, he and Georgie weren’t typically very physically affectionate with each other. He quickly relaxed and leaned into her a bit as they both sank into silence and watched their loves dancing together, sharing conspiratorial laughs and whispers. 

Martin’s bowtie was loose around his neck but not undone quite yet, his jacket long-abandoned on the back of the chair Georgie was in. He could tell by the way his eyes kept darting around the room that Martin was whispering cheeky observations about different guests to make Melanie laugh and succeeding with ease. 

“Beautiful,” Jon muttered.

“Eyes off my wife, Sims.”

“Funny that you think I can keep my eyes off my fiancé.”

*

“Are you ready for this one?” Martin said, close to Melanie’s ear as they swayed around the center of the dance floor. 

“Oh, please.” 

“Well,” he began, turning them around again so he didn’t get caught looking back. “Georgie is sat in my seat and leaning her head on Jon’s shoulder, and they’re both staring at us like we’re angels sent to Earth just for them.”

Melanie threw her head back and laughed. “As if we aren’t.”

“To be honest, they’re looking a little pathetic. We might want to go save them.” 

“I say let them pine,” she declared. 

Martin grinned wickedly. “Maybe a moment more.” 

When the song finished, Martin led them over to their doe-eyed partners. Both Jon and Georgie reached out for them as they approached, like vines tenderly stretching towards sunlight. Georgie encircled Melanie’s waist with her arms and leaned her head on her hip and Jon reached his hands out to catch Martin’s, intending to pull him close. Instead, Martin yanked him to his feet. 

“I would like this dance,” he said.

Jon raised an eyebrow. “I thought that was supposed to be more of a question than a demand.”

“Not in this case,” Martin said with a smirk. “Come on.” 

*

Martin led Jon out onto the dance floor and pulled him close, arms wrapped around his waist, as Jon’s hands curled around the back of Martin’s neck. 

“Did you pay the DJ to keep playing slow songs?” Jon asked, with a lopsided grin that Martin returned. 

“It’s possible.” 

He pulled his arms tighter around Martin’s shoulders and turned his cheek to rest against him. He smiled at the vibrations in Martin’s broad chest as he hummed along. 

Jon had been to very few weddings in his life and this was certainly the only one that ever meant anything to him. He never really understood what got people so worked up about someone else’s wedding until that afternoon, when he felt his eyes involuntarily fill with tears at the sight of Georgie walking down the aisle, draped in white and beaming on her mother’s arm. He thought he’d been discreet until he felt Martin squeeze his shoulder in support. Quite frankly, it made him glad he and Martin had decided against doing anything quite so traditional for a number of reasons, one being that he clearly wouldn’t be able to withstand the sheer sentimentality of it. 

As they turned, he took in different angles of the room, filled with people from different nooks of Georgie and Melanie’s lives. There were various family members, some of Georgie’s who he met years ago and probably knew him for his less than pleasant countenance back then. Some were old friends from Oxford who Georgie kept up with but barely remembered him, which was possibly for the best. Some were friends of Melanie’s who he’d only just learned the existence of recently. 

He couldn’t fill a room with this many people if he tried. He knew Martin would be hard pressed as well, but perhaps not quite as much as himself. He’d been good at making friends in the last few years, much better than Jon who still found himself wondering if the maths teacher he ate lunch with most days even liked him. 

Martin loved weddings. He’d been thrilled to help Melanie and Georgie with their planning, and if Jon did say so, eagerly took on a few too many tasks in the last several weeks. Even just this morning, he elected to run to the nearest Superdrug when the girl doing Georgie’s hair realized she hadn’t brought enough bobby pins. Martin slipped perfectly into the romantic pageantry of it and relished in it. The man was made for weddings, for spending a day celebrating love with flowers and words and music and food, for making a show of it, for staring down the stress of planning an event with stubborn hope and optimism. And yet, he’d agreed with Jon that for their own, they should simply make it official at the courthouse and then celebrate in their back garden with their friends. 

Jon lifted his head from Martin’s shoulder and took the edge of his bowtie between his fingers, idly feeling the fabric. Setting it right was futile at this point.

“You’re--you’re sure you don’t want something like this?” he asked. 

Martin looked around the full room as well, then back down at him. “I mean, Jon--do you?”

“No, I… I really don’t,” he admitted. “But I would hate to take it away from you just because I felt differently.” 

Martin looked down with a furrowed brow. “You’re not taking anything away from me, Jon, it’s _our_ wedding. It should be what we both want.”

“Well, yes,” Jon said. “But I just… You’re not changing your expectations to make me comfortable, right?”

“Have I ever been known to do that?” 

“Yes,” Jon retorted. 

Martin rolled his eyes. “Alright, but trust me, Jon. I know what I want. I’m not holding back. All this is great fun, but I’m not so keen on being the center of it.” 

Jon glanced down and then out to the room again, at the other couples moving around them. “And… What do you want?”

“Well, my checklist goes like this. I’d like to marry you,” Martin said, punctuating each item on the list with a light tap on the small of Jon’s back. “I’d like our friends to be there. I’d like to have a nice meal, and I’d like to not worry about a thing. How does that compare with yours?”

Jon smiled, tucking his face to his chest again. “Well, when you say it like that, I think they might be quite identical.” 

“Then you don’t have anything to worry about,” Martin said. “Though I appreciate your concern.”

“Alright,” Jon said.

Martin ducked his head to nestle his lips in Jon’s hair. “Don’t worry. It’ll be perfect.”

“I’m not worried,” Jon protested. 

“What was all that, then?”

“Just… voicing a concern.”

“And that’s very distinct from worrying, of course.” 

Jon looked up at him with murderous eyes, offset by a smile he couldn’t manage to stow away. “Shut up.” 

Martin did so by way of leaning down and kissing him soundly, a hand traveling up his back to cup his neck. The music changed around them as an upbeat pop song overtook the room. They stayed put for a moment longer and Jon became vaguely aware of the atmosphere moving on, as reluctant as he was to pull away. Martin had more wherewithal to break the kiss and begin moving off the dance floor. 

“I think we’re in the way,” he said, dodging some little cousin of Melanie’s making a beeline for the center of the room. 

“Might be so,” Jon said, lacing his hand with Martin’s and following him back towards their table. Something knocked against his shoulder and he turned quickly to find it was Daisy’s fist. 

“No snogging on the dance floor,” she said through her wolfish grin, pulling Basira along on her arm. 

“We’re quite obviously leaving,” Jon huffed. 

“Well, we’re headed to the bar,” Basira said. “Coming?” 

Martin nodded in her direction. “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i occasionally made myself cry writing this i'm fine


	4. same old cannonball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes an old mistake with his own health and Martin is not pleased one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: fainting, not eating
> 
> Ellen is about 17 in this for reference.

Martin barreled past droves of teens leaving school for the day, desperately following the directions he’d gotten from the office administrator up front. Less than an hour ago, he got a call from the school nurse saying that Jon had collapsed in his last class of the day. He quickly regained consciousness and was resting in her office, but just to be safe, someone should come pick him up to make sure he got home alright. Martin found Jon there, reclined on the stuffy little cot looking rather bored and unconcerned. 

“Hey,” he said, as he rushed to perch on the cot beside him. “What happened? How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, I'm alright. It was just… It was nothing.”

“What do you mean it was nothing?” Martin said. “You passed out in class. You could have hit your head on something. Why didn’t anyone call an ambulance?”

He held up a useless, reassuring hand. “I--I didn’t hit my head, and I told them not to.”

“Jon, you have no idea why it happened, we should--”

“I do,” Jon said, suddenly avoiding his gaze. “It’s… Ah. I--I hadn’t quite eaten anything today.”

Martin had been fretting for the half-hour commute across the city, churning over all the terrible things that could make an otherwise healthy man collapse in the middle of his work day, and in an instant all that worry slipped into acute frustration.

“Jon, are you kidding me?”

He grabbed for Martin’s hand. “I’m sorry, it was stupid of me. I had a lot going on today and--”

“You forgot to _eat?_ ”

“...Yes.”

Martin stood and threw his arms up wildly. “What is it, 2017? I thought we put this particular battle to rest a long time ago, Jon. Do you do this a lot?”

“No,” Jon hurried to say, swinging into a seated position and planting his feet on the floor. “I swear, this is not something I make a habit of. You know I slept very poorly last night, and on top of that, I just sort of… accidentally ran myself into the ground.”

Martin shook his head. “Christ, I cannot believe--don’t you think I have been through enough to deserve to not have to worry about you starving yourself?”

Jon looked a bit hurt at this. Martin knew he’d chosen his words poorly, rashly, made himself the victim, but he couldn’t find it in him to care at the moment. “Martin, it wasn’t intentional. It’s just been a hell of a day. I didn’t have time to--”

“I get a call from a stranger saying you collapsed in class and I’m supposed to think--what, exactly? You know what I was thinking? It’s a brain tumor or, or--”

“Martin, please,” Jon said, but he wasn’t done.

“Jon, you are not _young_ anymore and your body has been through a _lot_ and you can’t treat it like you did when you were _literally invincible_.”

Jon’s eyes flickered pointedly to the nurse, who was looking like she’d love to run out of the room at top speed. Martin forgot she was even there. He took a deep breath and reeled himself in before he said anything he’d really regret. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin said, without elaborating. 

Jon reached out a hand for him to take. “Can we just go home, please?”

Martin stood and stared daggers with folded arms. 

“You really scared the shit out of me, Jon.”

“I know,” he whispered, letting his hand drop. “I’m so sorry.” 

Martin couldn’t bring himself to soften entirely, but he let his arms fall before silently crossing back to Jon and leaning down to press an angry kiss to the top of his head. 

“Let’s go, you moron. Are you alright to stand?” 

“Yes, yes.”

Martin helped him up and he seemed steady enough. Still, he hooked his arm around his waist and corralled him out of the office to let the nurse end her day in peace. He apologized for his outburst on the way out and she awkwardly waved her forgiveness. 

Just outside the nurse’s office, a couple of students stared from a pair of chairs in a small lobby. 

“You’re in trouble, Mr. B,” one girl said, with a cheeky grin. 

The other shoved her in the shoulder and said, “Oh my god, shut up. Are you okay, Mr. Blackwood?” 

Martin reddened a bit, realizing they must have heard his ranting from the hallway. 

“Yes, Claudia, thank you for asking,” Jon said. “I’m just fine. Sorry to give you all a scare this afternoon.”

“Just glad you’re alright, sir,” she said. 

“Well, I will be if my husband doesn’t kill me for not taking proper care of myself.” 

Martin rolled his eyes and shot the kids a look, hoping to silently communicate that their teacher was just as much of a pain in the ass as they’d think. “Come on, _sir_ ,” he said. They laughed, and he urged Jon on towards the door. 

When they got home, panicked footsteps thundered down the stairs as they moved into the living room, and soon enough Ellen burst in, still in her school uniform. Martin had called her to let her know what had happened when he left work to collect Jon. 

“Dad, what happened? Are you alright?” she said, hurrying to stand beside Martin and look down at him slumping back into the sofa. 

“I’m fine,” Jon said, but Martin wasn’t satisfied with that answer.

“Well, your father--you know, an adult?” he spat. “He decided it would be a brilliant plan to eat practically nothing all day after barely sleeping, like he was twenty-five again and living off black coffee, cigarettes, and pure spite.”

“Dad. Are you stupid?” Ellen lamented.

Jon opened his mouth but Martin jumped in again.

“Yes, he is, because he thinks he still transcends the need for petty human necessities, like sleep and food!”

“I do not think that at all,” Jon argued. “How many times do I have to tell you it was just a stupid mistake, not a premeditated decision?”

“A few more, probably,” he said, and then pointed a finger at Ellen. “Let this be a lesson to everyone in this house. For the love of god, take care of yourself or incur my wrath.” 

Jon had the absolute nerve to look at Ellen and say, with the barest of smirks, “He’s a little fired up.”

Ellen shook her head wildly with wide eyes, clearly unimpressed with Jon’s attempt at levity. “Oh my _god_.” 

“Fine,” Jon said, putting up a hand in apology. “Sorry.”

“But you’re okay?” Ellen said. 

“I swear,” Jon said. 

Ellen dropped beside him on the couch and hugged him. “You had Dad all worried and that had me all worried.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. Just a silly mistake on my part.” 

“So you’re not going to drop dead if I go finish my homework before dinner?”

“Jesus, El,” Martin muttered, but Jon looked mildly amused.

“I don’t imagine I will,” he said. “Go on.” 

She gave him a squeeze and went back upstairs, leaving Martin standing in front of him, feeling the resolve of his righteous fury wither just a bit. Jon patted the seat beside him, and he gave in. Martin sank down into the couch next to him. He greedily pulled him close with an arm around his back and pressed a firm kiss to his temple, and Jon lifted a hand to his cheek to direct their lips to meet, breathing more small apologies right into Martin’s lungs. Martin finally allowed his shoulders to relax and melted a bit into him. He pulled back and ran his hand through Jon’s head of grey hair. 

“Alright. I’m sorry I reacted so harshly,” Martin said through a sigh. “It just really rang some alarm bells for me. I just… I can’t imagine--”

“You don’t have to say it,” Jon said. “I understand.”

Martin gripped his face between two hands. “You have been through _so_ much and I worry a lot about--it’s just scary as we get older, and… I’m always afraid one day, some old injury you should have never been able to naturally sustain is going to rear its head and--”

Jon shushed him, running a soothing hand over his shoulder. “We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it?”

“I thought we came to it today!” Martin said, raising his voice again slightly. 

Jon sighed and nodded. “Yes, I know. Believe me, Martin, it is not lost on me what you were feeling.”

“Good,” Martin said. “Better not be.” 

Jon’s hand crept up to caress the back of his neck. “I hate that I scared you that much. I wasn’t--I wasn’t thinking about the ramifications.”

“Obviously.”

“Alright,” Jon said, throwing his head back in anguish. “Do you think you could lay off just a bit? I understand the gravity of my crime.” 

Martin cracked a smile. “Fine. I’m sorry.” He pulled his face close to kiss once more. 

Jon pulled back to press a sweet kiss to Martin’s cheek, and then another. “Will you make me a cup of tea?” he murmured, and Martin let out a put-upon groan. 

“Yes. Of course. Anything you want,” he snapped, with an air of playfulness this time. “I love you _so_ much and you drive me absolutely insane.” He stood and swept into the kitchen before he could detect any hint of satisfaction on his husband’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i write too fluffy i want to write mean, angry martin  
> also me: haha so like still fluffy tho right
> 
> I literally do not know how human bodies work dont @ me if this makes no sense


	5. a year in the life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is a bit caught off guard by the fervor with which Jon celebrates his birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place about a year after the apocalypse.

Martin woke before his alarm to the sound of their heavy front door falling shut. He checked his phone and noted how early it was for Jon to have slipped out and be back already. Martin stirred and sat upright to the soundtrack of mild puttering from the kitchen, a dish clinking on the counter and the crinkling of paper. 

Soon, Jon nudged the bedroom door open with his shoulder and entered with a shy, satisfied grin. His hands were full of a paper coffee cup and what looked to be a pain au chocolat on a dish. 

“Morning,” Martin said, unable to contain his own smile as he propped himself up further. He grabbed his glasses from the bedside table so that Jon actually came into full focus. 

Jon didn’t say a word. He simply set the cup and dish down on the side table and climbed into Martin’s lap, straddling him and plucking his glasses right back off his face. 

“Hey,” Martin protested, but it was cut short.

Jon pulled him into a kiss so hungry, it was almost jarring so early in the morning. Martin struggled to catch up to Jon’s urgent motions, wrapping his arms around his curved back and pulling him closer. Jon wound his arms incredibly tight around his neck and before long, his hands slipped into Martin’s hair to cradle his head, turning the kiss less fervent, more precious. Those hands made their way to his face, gently caressing his cheeks with his thumbs. 

“Happy birthday,” Jon breathed when he finally pulled away. He politely returned Martin’s glasses to his nose. 

Martin managed an amused little laugh between breaths. “Already might be the best one yet.” 

“I went and got some pastries,” Jon said, smoothing down bits of Martin’s hair that he had himself just sent spiraling in different directions. 

“That’s very sweet of you,” Martin said. 

“And,” he said. “I got you that tea you like from there, and I… I had them make it up with the cream and all because I didn’t trust myself to do it right.” 

Martin smiled, but found himself a bit speechless, staring at him in awe. 

“What?” Jon asked.

He shook his head. “This is just still--I know it’s sort of silly, after everything, but--this is just all still sort of new.” 

“What is?” 

Martin squirmed a bit, hoping what he was about to say didn’t come out backhanded. “Uh… You being so… Being so affectionate. And doting, it’s all just… It’s so nice.” 

Jon continued his caressing, his smile turning a bit sad. “Well, it’s sort of new for me, too.”

Martin shook his head and moved his hands to Jon’s hips, running his hands up and down his sides. “You know, that all came out wrong. I think what I’m trying to say is that I’m really happy, Jon,” he said. “That’s what feels so weird.” 

“Oh,” Jon said, looking relieved if not a bit confused. “I--I suppose I can understand that, as well.”

“Happiness suits you,” Martin said. 

Jon huffed a laugh. “Who’d have known?” He leaned forward and kissed Martin on the forehead. “Your tea is going to get cold,” he said, finally removing himself from Martin’s lap to provide him with the treats he’d brought. He resettled on the edge of the bed with the gifts outstretched.

“You really couldn’t have picked a more crumbly pastry to serve me in bed,” Martin teased, taking the plate from his hands. 

“Oh,” Jon said, frowning a bit. “I didn’t think about that.” 

“I think I might as well make the move to the kitchen,” Martin said. “Be cleaning pastry flakes out of the sheets for days.”

“Sorry,” Jon said.

“I’m joking, it’s fine. Well, I was serious about the kitchen, actually. Budge up.”

Jon stood and took the plate back to give Martin room to unravel from the sheets and they both made their way out to their small kitchen and living space.

Martin took a seat at the table but instead of sitting in the other chair, Jon sidled up behind him and draped across his shoulders, arms closing around his chest. He began to kiss along Martin’s throat, slowing significantly and becoming more open-mouthed as he went.

“Christ, Jon,” he sighed, his hands sagging around the cup of tea when he felt teeth drag lightly along his skin. Jon left a final kiss on his cheek and then dropped his chin to Martin’s shoulder.

“Yes?” 

“A little hot and heavy for a Tuesday morning,” Martin breathed. 

Jon pressed another softer kiss to his temple. “Sorry.”

“I’m not complaining.”

He felt Jon smirk against his skin. “Well, good. Just celebrating your continued existence.” 

“My existence is going to feel real celebrated when I walk into work with lovebites on my birthday.”

Jon tutted. “I didn’t. You’re fine.” 

“Which speaking of, what time is it?” 

“Just after seven. You’ve got time.”

“Well, I should shower soon, so would you unhand me and let me eat my pastry?”

Jon sighed and lifted his arms off Martin’s shoulders. “Fine.” He dropped into the chair beside him and grabbed the bag from the bakery, procuring his own breakfast.

“Seriously, Jon,” Martin said, nudging his foot with his own. “This is all very lovely. Thank you.” 

“I’ve--I’ve never really paid enough attention to your birthday before,” Jon admitted. “I wanted to do it right this time.” 

Martin smiled. “Well, we’ve got quite a few ahead of us to make up for it.”

“I certainly hope so.” 

Martin’s day at work passed rather quickly. He was running on thoughts of his evening ahead, cooking with Jon in their minuscule kitchen whatever secret extravagant recipe he had planned. He was caught by surprise by the amount of well wishes he fielded from his coworkers. The information had apparently been spread around by his colleague, Lena, who still followed Melanie King on Instagram and had spotted her post wishing him a happy birthday this morning. 

When the evening came, Martin walked out of the library just after five to find Jon sitting patiently on a ledge outside. He looked a bit tidier than he usually did when he left work, as if he’d already stopped home to spruce up and change. 

“What are you doing here?” Martin cried. 

“Taking you to dinner,” he said with a smirk.

“I thought we were cooking at home. You got all those ingredients--”

“I lied.” Jon offered his hand and Martin took it. Before they set off, Jon pulled him close for a quick kiss.

“Well, where are we going, then?” Martin asked as they walked through the courtyard to the main road. 

“As if I would tell you that.” 

“So it’s a surprise?” 

“That is how these things work, yes.” 

“Is it… walking distance?” 

“You’ll find out, won’t you?” 

Martin laughed incredulously, feeling a giddiness bubble up at the thrill of the surprise, and the sheer comprehensiveness of Jon’s birthday treatment. God, he was so in love. He was in love with someone who’d put so much thought into catching him off guard on his birthday, into showering him with such sweeping affection from the moment he woke up. He was in love with someone who, since they’d set themselves free into this world anew, made a constant concerted effort to establish the normal life they didn’t think they’d get a go at, to make them feel like they were just dating like a normal couple since they’d missed out on that for the first indeterminate chunk of their relationship. He glanced at Jon from the side and got a kick out of his tiny smug grin. He was clearly just as pleased with his own plans as Martin was.

Jon led him to a Japanese restaurant in Soho where they shared some rolls of sushi, a bottle of sake, and stories from their days. Jon had just gotten a long-term substitute position teaching history at a secondary school in Crouch End. The school year had only just begun and each night, he came home with silly laments as he grappled to understand teen dynamics. 

Even more than laughing at him and his teenager woes, Martin so deeply cherished making Jon laugh. His smile hung so much looser these days, especially when it was just the two of them. That taut, tight-lipped expression that was once his baseline was far less common, only appearing in overwhelming social situations or their fleeting moments of strife. Martin relished in dropping a loaded comment about one of his own coworkers and watching Jon’s head fall and his shoulders shake. When he picked his head up, he’d be wearing that carefree grin, the one Martin hadn’t really known existed until their time at the cabin. Maybe he’d seen it once or twice before, on the few occasions Tim had actually coaxed Jon to a pub. Now, Martin almost made a game of bringing it out and he was rather good at it. 

Martin sometimes wondered how he’d ever fallen for who Jon used to be. The Jon he knew and loved now was so very different. But then again, they both were. Perhaps what Martin had back then was a special sort of insight into who Jon might be beneath all his persnickety armor. Maybe Martin had held the key to that smile of his all along. 

They finished their food and were left with half the bottle of sake, which they both had already admitted to not preferring in general. Jon refilled Martin’s glass.

“Oh, thank you,” Martin said with an edge of sarcasm.

“We might as well suck it up and finish it,” Jon said.

He stared expectantly as Martin tipped the glass to his lips with a sigh. When he set it down, he stared right back at him.

“You keep looking at me like that,” Jon said.

Martin laughed and shook his head. “I just really don’t think anyone has ever treated me this nicely for my birthday in… Well, certainly not in my adult life.”

Jon reached for Martin’s hand across the small table and took it in his own. “That is quite a shame,” he said. “Because you deserve a lot more.” 

“I just… It’s not that I didn’t expect you to do much. Like I said, I’m just not very used to this kind of thing.” 

“Well, get used to it,” Jon said with a wicked grin. 

“Gladly.”

Jon’s smile relaxed into a content pensiveness and he ran his thumb over and over Martin’s knuckles. 

“I love you, Martin, and I hope I make that clear every day,” he said, bringing his hand to his lips briefly. “I just really wanted to take today as an opportunity to show you how much.” 

“Thank you, Jon,” Martin said quietly. “I love you, too.” 

“For the record, I plan on making you smile like that as much as possible for the rest of our lives, not just on your birthday.”

Martin was suddenly very conscious of his own expression. “Like what?” 

“You get this smile on sometimes,” Jon said. “I don’t think I ever noticed it before. Well, before everything, I mean. It’s like you said this morning. You look utterly surprised to be happy.” 

“Oh, I reckon I used to smile like that when you’d so much as say thank you for a cup of tea rather than ignoring me. You just missed it.”

Jon laughed ashamedly and ducked his forehead to their joined hands. “Well, I’d like to catch it every time from here on out.”

Martin gave a petty shrug. “Might wear off in ten years or so when you’ve run out of tricks.” 

Jon shook his head and unfolded Martin’s hand in both his own. He kissed the center of his palm. “I’ll keep surprising you. Mark my words.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> local lovesick bastards celebrate a birthday a year after saving the world


	6. I can be your right arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a plan for a very special day. It's not a very complicated plan, but it's a plan nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess my title options are either dar williams or marry me a little

“When’s the last time you went to the Tate?”

Jon kept his eyes trained on the pile of assignments he was marking, but he could just see Martin’s head pop up at his question. “The… which one?” Martin asked. 

Jon shrugged, affecting a casual air. “The one we worked next door to for years. Did you... go much then?”

“Sometimes,” Martin said. “But I haven’t been since, you know. The last time.” 

He was referring to the end of the end of the world. When the skies cleared and they were finally, actually safe, they’d walked down the block from the former site of the Institute and dropped to rest at the base of the steps leading up to the Tate Britain. They watched the sun rise over the Thames in a state of shock that took a long while to melt into relief and then Jon gracelessly laid half his body in Martin’s lap and passed out for the better part of an hour. Martin had reportedly done much the same, folded around Jon’s ragged form like a blanket. 

“Would you like to go?” Jon asked. “This weekend, perhaps?” 

Martin furrowed his brow. “I don’t… I don’t really like to go around there if I can help it.” 

“I know. Me neither, but… We can’t avoid it forever.” 

“Or we could,” Martin said with a positive tone. 

Jon laughed and finally looked up at him. “I just thought it might be nice to go… I don’t know, see the Turner Collection? Make a new memory?” 

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Is there something specific there you want to see?” 

“No,” Jon said. “Just thought it might be nice.”

“Alright,” Martin said with a skeptical eye. “I just get the idea you’re trying to lure me into some exhibit of unreadable ancient maps of Europe or something.” 

Jon crossed his arms. “Ancient maps are very cool.” 

“So there  _ is _ a map exhibit?”

“No! I’m just defending the integrity of ancient maps. Cartographers thought all sorts of things--” 

“You’re not convincing me there’s no map exhibit.” 

“Martin, I promise there’s no ulterior motive,” he lied. “Just… I was just thinking about doing something different. That’s all.” 

“Alright, then,” Martin said, still mildly confused. “The Tate it is?” 

Jon plastered on an even smile, tamping down any trace of victory. “Lovely.” 

They went late in the afternoon on Saturday, planning to stay until closing and then grab dinner after at a spot they used to get frequent takeaway curries from back in the day. 

“I am genuinely shocked there’s no map exhibit,” Martin said as they filed in through the museum doors with groups of students and tourists. 

Jon narrowed his eyes. “It’s not--that’s not even the kind of thing they would have here--”

“I just really thought there had to be some reason you’d just want to come here all of a sudden,” Martin said. “Color me surprised.” 

“Don’t you think I’d tell you if there was something specific I wanted to see?”

Martin shrugged. “Not if it was, you know… Not particularly…” 

“Interesting?” Jon supplied. 

“Not that your interests aren’t interesting, but--”

“I get it, Martin,” Jon said, rolling his eyes but hiding a smirk. He grabbed Martin’s hand and led on.

For the bulk of their visit, Jon found himself shockingly calm. If he just didn’t think too far ahead, he could fool himself into believing it was like any other museum date, wandering through rooms, pausing here and there, drifting away for a moment and backtracking to find Martin poised in front of a particular piece, struck into a peaceful rumination. Martin spoke such beautiful, reverent words in museums. Jon loved to catch him in these moments, to see art through his eyes, to be pulled by the hand to a piece he couldn’t let Jon miss and immerse himself in what he imagined was going on inside that lovely head. 

It wasn’t until they descended the spiral staircase back to the entrance hall that his nerves caught up. Jon made a point to keep his hands to himself, stuffed in his jacket pockets to hide the shaking. If Martin touched him at all, he’d no doubt feel the trembling mess he’d become as they neared the door.

They emerged out onto the grand stone staircase that led back down to the street. Jon caught Martin’s hand before he descended to the first landing. 

“Why don’t we sit a moment?” he said, softly. “Watch the river?”

Martin gave him a look but conceded, allowing Jon to pull him down to sit beside him up against the thick railing. He scooted even closer, seemingly to avoid the wet pile of autumn leaves that had collected at the edge of the stair, swept over by wind and foot traffic. He felt so drawn to simply lay his head in Martin’s lap, close his eyes, and rest, like he had here once before. 

The early autumn evening was unimaginably clear for London. Jon’s biggest fear was rain foiling his very time-sensitive plan. He could have never convinced Martin to sit down on wet stone in so much as a drizzle. But the weather had held up its end of the bargain. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve that.

Jon thought he’d done a rather decent job of not pulling anything particularly suspicious until this point, passing off the Tate as a purely off-the-cuff suggestion for spending an afternoon. This was the moment he had not planned. He’d successfully gotten Martin to the desired spot, after a lovely day, no less, and he knew what his next move was meant to be. He just didn’t quite know how to discern the right moment, or what to say until it came. They ended up sitting in silence for quite a while, watching groups passing on their way to dinner, people leaning over the railing looking at the river, tourists floating by on boats. 

Suddenly, Martin spoke and Jon almost jolted at the sound.

“You know,” he said, with a lethal dose of playfulness. “If it were my job--which I know we’ve agreed it’s not, don’t worry--I’d have proposed to you right now. It would have been a perfect moment for it. You know, considering this spot, and the weather, and the rest of the day and all. Damn, I wish I hadn’t signed proposal rights over to you. What was I thinking?”

All of the shaking nerves that plagued Jon’s body erupted into sheer panic, but Martin continued on unaware as he gazed out at the water with that petty, teasing twinkle in his eye.

“I’m just joking, by the way. Of course, there’s no--oh.” Martin looked over at Jon and saw there was no returned sparring amusement and instead, what must have been a rather grim expression on his face. Jon took this moment to throw his head into his hands in his lap and groan.

“Oh god,” Martin said, suddenly stricken. “I was just taking the piss--”

Jon lifted his head and held up a hand.

“No, no, Martin, hold on,” he said, letting the whisper of a smile creep in. “Just let me recalibrate. I just need a moment. Just--”

He scrambled to collect his thoughts, quickly coming to the conclusion that the moment he’d been looking for had just in fact presented itself in a way he never considered. All there was left to do was act.

He watched the realization wash away the concern from Martin’s face as Jon knelt in front of him on the step below. He held out both his hands for Martin to take hold of, which he did.

“Oh my god,” Martin muttered. “I’m stupid. I’m bloody stupid.”

“No, you’re…” He shook his head with a laugh and squeezed his hands. “You’re perfect. Just let me pretend you never said all that.”

“Alright,” Martin babbled. “Of course, of course. Just--Yes. Already forgetting. I never said a thing. What were we talking about?” 

“And,” Jon added. “You know how I am with things like this, so if I end up saying something stupid, please try not to remember it forever.” 

“No promises,” Martin said.

“Right,” Jon said. “Well. Ah…” 

He looked in Martin’s eyes, which proved very unhelpful and only distracted him from collecting his words. He darted his gaze away and rushed to recall what he had been stitching together in his mind for months now.

“We sat here after the world went right,” Jon began, suddenly conscious of the strangeness of his tone. He didn’t want to sound like he was reciting a monologue in a school drama class, or worse, someone else’s words recounting dismal, strange events. He shook his head and continued. 

“I wish I could tell you a litany of hopeful, romantic things that crossed my mind in those moments, but I--I was so tired. I laid right here in your lap and you held me until I woke up. Then we walked across town and went home, which is something that hadn’t existed for a… an indeterminate amount of time.”

He paused to work up the nerve to look Martin in the eye and saw how red his face had gotten, his cheeks now lined with wet streaks. He powered on before he let his own eyes spill over. 

“Except for when it did, in the form of just… being with you, through it all. Even when every single being on the planet had all comfort ripped away from them,  _ I _ still had  _ you _ .”

Martin bowed his head to kiss Jon’s hands, gripped in his own a bit too tight.

“I don’t feel I deserved it then, and it’s… still hard to feel like I deserve it now, which is why I find it important to actually--actually  _ ask _ this question and give you the liberty to respond.” 

Martin laughed and rolled his flooded eyes.

“Martin Blackwood,” Jon said, struggling to keep his voice soft and even. “You walked with me through literal hell and back. We’ve earned the rest of our lives. And I know this is all a bit of a formality at this point--”

“Are you going to say the words or not?” Martin spluttered, laughing through tears. 

“Right,” Jon said. “I’m trying, sorry--Martin. I love you. Would you marry me?”

“Of course,” Martin barely choked out before grabbing Jon’s face and pulling him up and into a kiss, wet and messy and urgent. It was barely a second before Jon pulled back violently and grappled his pockets.

“Christ, I forgot the ring. I have it, I just--” He ripped the box from his back pocket and grabbed Martin’s hand. 

“I think it goes on the other one, love,” Martin stage-whispered.

“Shit.” Jon dropped the hand in favor of the other, and returned to a semblance of his previous kneeling position to slip the ring on Martin’s finger. He shook his head with an incredulous smile. “I can’t believe you just ruined your own surprise by being a cheeky bastard.” 

Martin looked distraught. “In my defense, that is  _ not _ what I meant about beating you to it.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m sorry, I--oh, Jon.” Martin looked down at the ring now on the proper finger and then back at him. It was a simple rose gold band adorned with soft, elegant scrollwork wrapping around the center. 

“I hope it’s alright,” Jon said. “Georgie helped. I was never going to be able to pick something on my--”

“I love it,” Martin said, cradling his face once more. “And I love you. I love you so much, Jon.”

He stood and allowed himself to be pulled to sit sideways in Martin’s lap. He clamped his arms around Martin’s neck and tried to convey anything he hadn’t managed to put into words in one deep and comprehensive kiss. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there when they finally pulled apart. 

“People are clapping,” Martin whispered against his lips.

“Oh god,” Jon said. 

“Let’s get out of here?” Martin said. “Before we become a spectacle.” 

“Please,” he said. He kissed him once more and rose from his lap to offer him a hand. 

“Actually brilliant on your part, rebranding the Tate like this,” Martin said, his arm twisted up in Jon’s as they descended the rest of the staircase. “They could hire you.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“We had all this baggage surrounding this spot and now the first thing I’ll think of when I see these steps is today. Absolutely genius PR.”

“Ah,” Jon said. “Well, my expertise is only useful in a very specific case, I’m afraid.”

“I also can’t believe you actually managed to surprise me. I was pretty sure I’d know when you were planning something.” 

“It could be argued that you did,” Jon said dryly. 

“I didn’t know a thing, I swear!” 

“You literally laid my plan out word for word.”

“That was purely coincidence.”

“I know,” Jon said with a twisted smile. “I think there’s still something fishy about it.”

Martin clucked his tongue. “You can take the man out of the conspiracy but you can’t take the conspiracy theories out of the man.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a highly suspicious individual, Martin Blackwood,” Jon said. “All those spot-on romantic sensibilities… It can’t be natural. It took me months to come up with this plan and it took you five minutes.” 

“What can I say? I have a gift,” Martin said, lifting Jon’s hand to his lips as they headed down the block, perhaps huddled a little too close together to be particularly conducive to walking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun minigame: spend a lot of time looking up the tate britain on google maps and start looking at pubs in the millbank area where the archival staff would have gotten drinks, and end up looking at pictures of the interiors and imagining them laughing at a table there and th


	7. songs for a new world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comfort is a tenuous thing when you're used to it being ripped away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok more dancing

It wasn’t hard to find a flat. It was even easier to combine what they’d salvaged of their previous lives into one space that was theirs to make a home of together. It was the easiest thing either of them had to do in the last five years, so easy that it felt like a trap. With every tender, simple moment, each comfort they built into the everyday, Jon’s shoulders tensed, bracing for a suckerpunch that never came. It wouldn’t, they made sure of that, but fear still gripped him. At least it was just the regular, human kind. 

The first month was fragile. They treated wounds that for so long they’d only been able to loosely cover, wounds that had scabbed over gruesomely between them and within themselves that made it hard to sit still, hard to be alone, and sometimes, hard to be together so constantly. 

The second month was better. The third month was sweeter. Jon slowly learned he could trust relief, to not shove it away so quickly in case it was misguided. He often woke in the middle of the night and sighed deeply into his pillow at the sight of Martin breathing peacefully beside him. He’d be washed over by a second wave of comfort in the relief itself, a willingness to own it and let it be true. 

There was no missing how happy Martin seemed. He got his wish, after all, the one he’d gritted his teeth and spat out defiantly despite being told he was foolish for hoping. They made it out alive, and so did their friends. He seemed to take to it quicker. He made them take walks after dinner like they’d done in Scotland. He would turn his face up towards the sunlight or a light drizzle and say, “Isn’t this beautiful?” and Jon could agree, because it was. He pet dogs and chattered excitedly at them, and Jon gazed with put-on distaste. They took blankets to the square of greenery down the block and laid out on mild afternoons until it got too cold. 

On one such day, Martin propped up against a tree and Jon laid with his eyes closed, head pillowed on Martin’s lap. Above him, Martin scribbled in his notebook, every so often tangling his fingers into Jon’s hair and scratching, pulling him from whatever twisting trail his mind had wandered down. 

“Growing up, did you feel like you were supposed to die young?”

Jon realized he said this as if it was as common as believing in Santa Claus when Martin peeked over his notebook with raised eyebrows.

“Uh, no, but I can believe you did,” Martin said.

Jon laughed. “Well, that’s fair.”

Martin set his notebook down and gave Jon his attention. He wasn’t even quite sure what he wanted to express, but Martin so patiently gave him a moment to piece it together.

“When I was younger, I couldn’t imagine one day being… my grandmother’s age, for example. I couldn’t even grasp what it would feel like to be thirty, so I kind of settled on believing that… maybe I never would be. It was easier to think that than hold the uncertainty of what it could be, I suppose. And then once I got close to thirty, certain doom was all too probable, so I… I sometimes have a hard time wrapping my head around still being here.”

“Well, I can understand that,” Martin said. 

Jon’s eyes snapped up to his, capturing his gaze. He knew what he meant, probably, but he still wanted to hear it. 

“I mean, I always assumed I’d have a future,” he continued. “But it sort of just seemed imaginary. Like I was just making up fantasies and whatever actually happened would just be… disappointing. Once I met you, I started to daydream a lot.”

“That so?”

“In the beginning, yeah. Used to get really lost in thought sometimes,” Martin said, shaking his head, bashful. “Suddenly find myself imagining these really detailed scenarios.”

Jon grinned wickedly. “Like what?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Martin teased. 

“Yes, I would.”

Martin sighed. “I mostly just imagined… You know, falling together some late night at work, kissing you on the street, where I’d take you on a date… standard hopeless crush stuff. When I got really deep I’d start imagining what you’d even be like as a serious boyfriend and sometimes, that was almost enough to turn me off the notion completely.”

Jon laughed and turned his head away. “That’s mean.”

“Yeah, so were you,” Martin said without much bite.

“Point taken.”

Martin sighed deeply. “But… then I’d say we all got a little too busy with protecting the future itself to spend time imagining specifics, and… some things made me forget the future was worth it.”

“Yes,” Jon said, staring back up into his eyes. Martin cupped his cheek, stroking his thumb lightly over a patch of scars. “Well. You’ve got me. How do your old daydreams compare?”

Martin grinned, looking contemplative. “I always knew you’d be a pain in the ass. I just thought there might have been more of a process of wearing you down until you were nice to me.” 

Jon’s smile dropped and he laid a hand on his leg. “Martin…”

“I know, I know,” he said. “I didn’t exactly have the healthiest sense of self worth back then.”

Jon’s eyes darted away and he ran his thumb over the fabric of Martin’s trousers. “God, what I wouldn’t give to go back in time and treat you better.” 

Martin let out a shocked laugh. “ _That’s_ what you would change about the past?” 

“Well,” he said. “It’s pretty high on my list.” 

Martin shook his head with a smile and raked his fingers through Jon’s breeze-tangled hair. “Too bad all we’ve got to work with is the future.”

Jon laughed softly and looked back up at him. “I’m very glad I’m here,” he said, with the solemnity of a vow. 

“I can’t complain, either.” 

Jon usually helped him cook, but some nights Martin insisted he keep his hands off. Whether it was a recipe he cherished the process of, reluctance to let Jon’s inexperience sully it, or a desire to take care of him fully for an evening was anyone’s guess.

Jon watched him instead on these nights. He watched his soft, skilled hands peel carrots and dice onions, season chicken and salt boiling water. He laughed when Martin dashed mad about the kitchen in search of a specific utensil only to find it was hidden in the sink under a dish, still dirty from the night before. 

He watched him tonight, a dark midwinter evening, as he threw together a soup he learned to make for his mother as a teenager.

Martin scraped onions off a cutting board with the back of a knife and then did a little dance in place, searching for a spot to put them down. 

“Have you got to take up half the good counter space?”

Jon shrugged from his perch. “It’s a nice view.” From here, he could see Martin’s kiss-stained lips as he shuffled the onions around the bottom of the stock pot, moving between that and the rest of his ingredients on the other available counter. 

Martin rolled his eyes and shook his head, stirring in chopped carrots and celery and seasonings. He added broth and then wiped his hands off and approached Jon once more. He flooded his space, stepping between Jon’s parted knees and sliding his hands up his thighs to rest on his hips. Jon threaded his hands into his hair to pull him close enough to kiss just as eagerly as they had moments ago, before the oil at the bottom of the pot heated.

Music played off Martin’s phone through a small speaker and filled the kitchen, blending pleasantly with the gentle rolling hum of heating broth. A slow, somber song came on and Martin hummed against Jon’s lips, as if in realization. 

He took a step back and held out his hand. Jon cocked an eyebrow but slid off the counter anyway, taking the proffered hand with suspicion. 

Martin pulled him close, wrapping his arms around his middle and beginning to sway. Jon reached up to wind his arms around Martin’s neck and matched his motion. 

“Did you just trick me into relinquishing your counter space?”

“No,” Martin said. “Just always wanted to dance to this song with someone.”

Jon simply stared up into his eyes with a smile that faded from snarky to impossibly fond. 

“Just someone? Anyone would do?”

Martin shook his head with an exasperated smile. “Always you.”

The song was melancholy yet dripping with a tender, fragile love Jon could easily recognize. 

“It’s kind of sad,” he commented.

“Yeah,” Martin said. 

“Sounds about right.”

“What does?”

“That you’ve always wanted to dance with someone to this depressing love song.”

Martin smiled. “Shut it.” 

Jon huffed a small laugh and then rested his lips at the base of Martin’s neck. He loved that whenever they stood pressed together and he ducked his head, Martin’s chin automatically came to rest on top of it. He was the perfect height for his shoulder to provide a resting spot for Jon’s head when they embraced. If he let his mind run off too far with that tender detail, he could almost start to believe in fate. 

Gentle fingers found the underside of Jon’s chin and tilted his lips up to Martin’s. He dipped to kiss Jon like it was the first time, reserved and precious. It was much less reserved than their first kiss actually was, quite honestly, but it held the reverence of something new and promising, a toast to whatever lies ahead. 

“Soup’s boiling,” Jon whispered into his lips. He looked up as if he was daring Martin to be the one to let go. 

“S’alright,” Martin said. “That’s what soup does.” 

“Thought soup was supposed to simmer.” 

“And what would you know about soup?”

“Enough.” 

“Right,” Martin said, reluctantly extricating from Jon’s arms and stepping over to turn the heat down. 

“Don’t think I’m not getting back on the counter,” Jon said. 

“You’re a menace.” 

They ate on the sofa wrapped in the same large blanket, cradling hot bowls and watching reruns of silly panel shows that Martin loved. Later, Jon woke with a start to a pat on the shoulder. 

“Time for bed, love,” Martin said. He hadn’t even noticed when he fell asleep, 

He was stretched out on top of Martin and the television was off. “What time is it?” he muttered, nuzzling his chest. 

“Almost midnight. You’ve been asleep for half an hour.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes, so why don’t we go get comfortable in bed?” 

Jon smiled, drowsy and mischievous. “I’m comfortable right here.” 

“Well, that’s very good for you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” 

“I’m very glad, but I would like to get up,” Martin said, lightly shoving Jon up and off him. He clung tight in defiance. “Oh, come on, Jon.” 

“You’re so warm.”

“I’ll be warm in bed, too, if you’d let me get there.” 

Jon sighed and lifted himself off and to his feet, taking the blanket with him. “Fine. Hurry up, then. It’s freezing.” 

Martin followed him to bed, insisting on things like brushing teeth and changing into pajamas first, but soon, he wrapped around Jon and pulled him close to his chest in the dark of their bedroom. Jon let out an involuntary sigh and settled in, fearing nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s mitski. obviously it was two slow dancers by mitski


	8. what we talk about when we talk about love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellen is kept up by some bothersome questions. Martin talks through them with her over a late night cup of tea.

Martin woke from a dream that was only slightly unsettling and saw that it was just around three in the morning. It was par for the course most nights that at least one of them couldn’t sleep through the night, and if Jon was still sleeping peacefully beside him, he wasn’t about to disturb him. He just needed a moment to settle back down and he’d drift off soon enough.

As he laid in silence, he jolted when he heard noise coming from Ellen’s room at this hour. It was nothing of concern, just the creaking of floorboards under foot, slow steps around the room like pacing. He heard her sit back down on her bed. She didn’t have any big school project on the horizon as far as he could recall, but she did have a bad habit of working late into the night. 

Martin grabbed his phone and shot her a text. _Everything alright, love? I hear you awake over there._

A moment passed and a response came. _just can’t sleep, don’t worry_

_Cup of tea might help_

There was a bit more hesitation on this reply. _actually, that would be nice_

Martin smiled. _Meet me downstairs_

He gingerly made his way out of bed so as to not rouse his husband, pulled on a robe, and stepped out into the dark hallway. Just a moment later, Ellen emerged from her room as well. He nodded towards the stairs and she crept down behind him. 

“Just one of those nights?” he asked as he filled the kettle. 

“Yeah.”

“I know how it is. We’re not very good at sleeping in this house, are we?”

“No, we’re not,” she said, with a bit of a grin. 

“That being said, we should probably stick to herbal. What’s your pick?” 

“Do we still have any of that really nice chamomile?”

“Hm,” Martin said, shuffling boxes around in the cabinet. “Looks like it’s just Waitrose brand left.” 

“That’s fine,” she sighed. 

The kettle came to a boil and he poured the tea, the same chamomile for both of them. 

“Were you up working on something?” he asked, circling around the counter with the two steaming mugs to sit on the stool beside her. 

She shook her head, wrapping her sleeved hands around the hot ceramic. “Just trouble sleeping.” 

“Got it,” he said, though he got the idea there was something else at play. 

She stared down into her cup with a pinched, concerned expression. 

“Can I ask you something?” Ellen said. 

“Of course, love.”

She let out a big sigh. “Do you think it’s crazy if I say I love Kira?” 

Martin’s face melted in relief and affection. He already thought of her as taking after Jon most, and then she’d go and do something like pacing her room in the wee hours of the morning, fretting about being in love. She was certainly his husband’s daughter. 

“I don’t think that’s crazy at all,” he said. “You’ve been together… what, about three, four months?” 

She nodded. 

“And you knew each other beforehand. You were friends first. I think it’s really natural to be there at this point.”

Ellen continued to stare into her tea, looking no less burdened. 

“Have you told her this?” he asked.

“No!” she said. “I’m--I’m worried it could… I don’t want to mess anything up and--I don’t want to scare her away.”

Martin tilted his head in sympathy. “Why do you think it would scare her?”

“I just--we have so much fun together and I don’t want to make it too serious if it doesn’t need to be too serious, and--”

Martin laid a hand on her knee. 

“El, I’ve seen the way she is around you,” he said. “In my expert opinion, she cares about you just as much as you care about her. She won’t be scared. I would guess she’s trying to figure out the right moment to tell you the same thing.”

Her brow knit with confusion. “You think so?” 

“Yeah, I do.” He gave her knee a firm shake. “Take the risk if it’s love. It’ll be worth it. Better to have loved and lost, and all that.” 

Ellen squirmed in her seat a bit, not meeting his gaze.

“How do I… how do I know it’s actually love?” she asked. 

“Do you feel like it is?” 

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah…”

“Then it probably is.”

She cocked her head. “It can’t be that simple.” 

“It really can be,” he said, with a small smile. “There’s no test you can take to prove it’s ‘actually’ love. It’s whatever you feel like it is, and it can change, and it can grow. Maybe what you feel like love is a year from now will be totally different from what it feels like now. Still love in both cases, though.” 

She nodded, still looking pensive and troubled. Then, she asked, “How did you know?”

Martin huffed a laugh. “Well, it was just a crush at first. Then he let me see through the cracks in his big, blustery armor and I suddenly wanted to keep him safe more than anything else in the world.” 

Ellen pressed her fingers to her temple. “That’s intense.”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “Everything was with us for a while. But thank god you don’t have to worry about the kinds of things I did. Just normal, confusing feelings for you.” He gave her knee a pat.

“Honestly,” she whispered. 

Martin sank back into his seat and took a sip of his tea, letting their words hang in the air for a moment. Then he asked, “How did you know?”

She shifted. “I don’t know if I know anything--”

“Well, you feel something. What made you think it might be love?”

Ellen fiddled with the string of her teabag, folding up the tag with her fingertips until it came off. “She’s my best friend,” she said. “And when something happens, something funny or good or bad or stressful, she’s… She’s the one I want to tell about it. And it feels like she does the same for me.” 

Martin nodded. “There you go.” 

“Is that it?” she said, with a scrunched up brow.

“It’s part of it, for sure. Could be there’s a lot of layers that you just haven’t scratched at yet, things that will unfold with time.” 

“This is so confusing,” she said, lacing her hands in her wild hair and leaning on her elbows propped on the counter. 

“I know, but you--”

He was cut off by the sound of footsteps upstairs that became more urgent by the moment, soon racing down the stairs. Jon quickly stepped into the kitchen and stopped short, clutching his chest. 

“Oh, Christ. You scared me.”

Martin laughed. “Did you think we were intruders having a tea and a chat in the kitchen?”

Jon squinted at him. “No, I woke up alone and stepped out to see Ellen’s door open, bed empty, and--” He dismissed the rest of his own explanation with the bat of a hand. “Put it on the calendar next time you’re planning to have a little meeting at half-three in the morning so I have some warning. I’m going back to bed.”

Martin chuckled. “Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight,” Ellen echoed.

Jon grumbled something as he trudged back up the stairs and Martin shot Ellen a guilty grimace. 

“Whoops,” she said. 

“Yeah, I do love that crazy old man,” he said with an exaggerated wistfulness.

Ellen smirked. “He’s alright.” 

Martin rubbed at his eye. “I don’t remember what I was saying before he came down.”

“I don’t either, but I have another question.”

Martin leaned across the counter towards her. “Go on.” 

“Do you think it’s too early?” 

“In the morning? Yes.”

Ellen rolled her eyes. “I mean, is it too early to tell Kira--you know, to say it?”

Before Jon, Martin himself had dropped the L-word too early in quite a few relationships that never rebounded from the added pressure after. He didn’t want to lead her in the same direction. Ellen was so young; she only just turned seventeen last month. But he wasn’t leading her on about what he’d observed in her girlfriend. Kira was absolutely besotted with his daughter. 

“I don’t know, love,” he said gently. “If you feel ready, I say go for it. If it doesn’t feel right yet, wait for the right moment. I think you’ll feel it when it comes.”

Ellen closed her eyes, exasperated. “That is so…” She flapped her hands around in the air, demonstrating her frustration with the arcane nature of his answers. 

“Yeah, but so is love in general,” he said with a shrug.

She groaned. “Why can’t there just be a straightforward--I wish someone would just send me a notification when it’s the right time. How am I supposed to figure it out myself?” 

“God, you really are just like your dad,” Martin said, pointing upstairs. “That one, I mean.” 

“I don’t know if I’m supposed to take offense to that,” Ellen said with narrowed eyes.

“Maybe just a little,” he teased. 

There was a moment of quiet before she spoke again. 

“I’m sure I’ll regret asking, but when did you and Dad say it?”

He laughed and leaned his chin in his hand. “You’re right, you will regret asking,” he said. “I first said it under really weird circumstances and he thought it meant the opposite. He said it later that same day, and then we went on the run to a safehouse in Scotland, and that was the beginning of our relationship.”

Ellen threw her head down onto her folded arms on the counter, but Martin caught a glimpse of her amused smile on the way down. “You guys are no help,” she mumbled into her sweatshirt sleeves.

“Hey, I omitted eighty percent of the details which would have been even less helpful,” he protested. “I’m just working with what I’ve got here.” 

She picked up her head and gave him that smile that meant if she wasn’t plagued by the pride that came with being seventeen, she’d tell him just how much she really appreciated learning these things about her parents. Martin grabbed her mug along with his own to deposit into the sink. 

“I think it’s time to get back to bed. You ready?”

“Yeah,” she said, slipping off the barstool. “Hopefully I can sleep or I’ll be dead tomorrow.” 

“Hopefully your dad is back to sleep or he’s gonna keep me up asking what this was all about,” Martin said, punctuated with a yawn. He threw an arm around her shoulders, pulled her close, and planted a firm kiss in the mess of her hair. “Up we go,” he said, corralling her toward the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ellen is basically Jon if he’d have been raised with warmth and affection


	9. regret it when we're old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets bullied into having a stag night and Martin is all too thrilled to deal with the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: alcohol/drunkenness 
> 
> I don't think I've ever published two days in a row but I'm procrastinating something and have had this one pretty much done for a while

It was nearing one in the morning when Martin received a text from Basira telling him he might want to actually come receive Jon at the front door. He laughed to himself, thrilled to soon learn just how inebriated they’d gotten his poor fiancé on his stag night. Jon had really fought against having one at all. He outright denied it for months, bemoaned it as a stupid patriarchal tradition, and why did he need to spend an evening dedicated to mourning this mythical loss of freedom when that’s not how he saw it at all? 

The girls eventually wore him down with promises of an ordeal no different from a mild evening at a pub. That didn’t mean, as Martin was well aware, that they wouldn’t do their best to get him fantastically pissed by the end of the night. 

It was a rather uncommon occurrence that Jon got drunk enough to require supervision, so it was a gift to Martin, really. Jon lost all pretension when he drank enough and became a bit of a ragdoll, usually falling all over him and clinging to his arm if they were wedged into a booth together. Often, a certain threshold of inebriation unlocked a deluge of sentimental affection, even in public.

He heard the chatter approaching up the front stoop and opened the door just in time to see Jon, leaning backwards against Daisy’s solid shoulder. Immediately, he gasped and rocked forward off her. “Martin!” 

“Hello, love-- _oof_.” Jon let his entire weight fall into Martin’s chest without warning, throwing his arms around his back. 

“Oh, I love you,” Jon said. “I missed you. Where were you all night?”

“At home, love. It was your stag do,” he explained, rubbing Jon’s back and making amused eyes at Daisy. “What did you do to him?” Martin said over his head. 

Basira shrugged and smirked. “Nothing a lot of water and a good night’s sleep can’t fix.”

“He just got finished calling us bastards for the whole walk, so he’s your problem now,” Daisy said.

Martin looked down at him, trying to peel him off his chest a bit to get a look at his face. “Now why would you say that?” he said, as if reprimanding a child. 

“They’re cops,” Jon mumbled into Martin’s jumper. 

He couldn’t suppress a laugh at that. “They haven’t been cops for a long time, Jon. You know that.” 

“We tried explaining that. Didn’t quite get through,” Basira said. 

“They were my police escort,” he mumbled, with a small satisfied smile.

Daisy turned to make her way back down to the pavement where Basira had hung back. She shot a last bemused glance over her shoulder. “Got that under control?” 

“Think so,” he said. “Thanks for getting him home.” 

“Just doing our job, apparently,” Basira deadpanned. 

They said their goodnights and Martin struggled to walk Jon through the door so he could lock up. “Might have to let go for just a moment, love.”

Jon shook his head, so Martin sighed and reached around him to pull the door shut.

“Right, we need to get you some water and then to bed,” he said.

Jon sighed. “I’m so tired.”

“I know, love,” Martin said. “Just a few things we’ve got to do first.” 

Jon gave a hum of indecipherable meaning and then reached his arms up and around Martin’s neck, pulling him down until their noses touched. “I love you so much. I missed you tonight,” he said again.

“Christ, Jon, you smell like a distillery.”

“Daisy made me do shots of…” He shook his head instead of finishing. “It was awful.”

“You let her bully you into taking shots? As in, multiple?”

“She’s so scary,” he whined. 

Martin chuckled. “She really must have been.”

“Kiss me?” Jon asked quite pathetically, and Martin couldn’t refuse. He gave him a quick but sure kiss, and pulled back before it went any deeper.

“Come on,” he said, tugging him along. 

He managed to walk him through into the kitchen and planted him in a chair at the table. Jon dropped into it and promptly pulled his feet up, resting his head on his knees. 

“My god, you are cute,” Martin said, admiring the sight of him all folded up while he fetched him a glass of water. He set it on the table directly in front of him. “Drink it up, please.” 

Jon lifted his heavy head and wrapped his hands around the glass. “Thank you, Martin. I love you.”

“So you’ve said.” He fondly watched him down half the water and then set it back, squinting up at him. Jon propped one elbow on the table and leaned his cheek in his hand, comically squishing his skin forward. 

“You’re so beautiful, Martin. You’re just, you’re so… you’re so good. I can’t believe you love me,” he said, his wistful tone turning incredulous. “Why _do_ you love me?” 

Martin shook his head at that. “Alright, not a good road to go down. Let’s get you upstairs.”

“Okay,” Jon sighed. He stuck out his arms and made grabby hands, a gesture that made Martin’s heart swell. He took Jon’s hands and pulled him to his feet.

“Don’t forget your water,” Martin said, before thinking twice. “Actually, I’ve got it. Come on. Upstairs.” He led the way back to the foyer, turning around at the bottom of the stairs to make sure Jon was following. He was, but clearly had other ideas as he clumsily shoved Martin down to land seated on the third stair, sloshing the glass in his hand around dangerously. 

“Jon, watch the water! What are you--” 

Jon slid right into his lap, straddling him on the stairs and diving in to kiss him senseless. Martin barely had a chance to set the glass down safely before Jon’s hands were all over him, slithering up his neck and into his hair, tugging him as close as humanly possible. Martin laughed at the shock of it, giggling into Jon’s rampant mouth. He was only just able to squeeze his arms between them and grab Jon’s shoulders to pull him back for a moment. 

“Jon,” he laughed. “We have to get you to bed, sweetheart.”

“But I love you so much, and I missed you tonight,” he whined, moving in to kiss him again. Martin acquiesced with nothing more than a brief peck and pulled the boneless little man to his unsteady feet. 

“Yeah, I got that,” he said, reaching down to retrieve the water. “I love you too, but you are incredibly drunk and it’s time to go to bed.”

Jon sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. “I am drunk.”

“Yes, yes you are,” Martin said, sliding his free hand around to rest between his shoulder blades. “Up you go. Be careful.” 

Miraculously, they made it up the stairs and Martin rerouted Jon to the bathroom to wash up first. He set the water down on Jon’s side table and pulled out some comfy clothes for him to change into when he returned. Jon soon came into the bedroom and made a beeline for the bed.

“Ah, ah, hang on,” Martin said, catching him about to tumble onto the duvet. “Gotta change before you get horizontal.”

He sat Jon back up and prompted him to raise his arms. He did so unsteadily, and Martin lifted the jumper off him, snickering at the silliness of his state all the while. 

“You’re laughing at me,” Jon said, not sounding particularly bothered by it, simply stating the fact. 

“You’re just very funny when you’re drunk.” 

“What’s so funny about it?” he argued. “Everyone’s funny when they’re drunk. _You’re_ funny when you’re drunk.” 

“Uh huh. And why’s that, love?”

Jon pulled his head through the t-shirt Martin provided. “Because you’re so cute,” he said, almost as if frustrated by the fact. “And you get so silly, and I _love_ it. God, it’s--it’s, you’re so cute it makes me feel like I’m going to melt in a puddle on the ground.” 

Martin nodded knowingly. “So you’ve answered your own question, then.”

Jon shook his head as if he was crazy. “What? No, I’m talking about you. That doesn’t explain--ugh.” He slumped over and gave up on the tenuous thought exercise. 

“Right. Get in bed, you fool.” 

He gave an exhausted hum and flopped backwards, stretching across the covers sideways. Martin tutted after him. 

“Get in properly, or I’ll pick you up.” Jon groaned and hoisted himself back up to move over to his side of the bed, and Martin reached over to smooth the blankets around him. “Thank you. I’m just going to go brush my teeth and I’ll be right back.”

Jon nodded and his eyes fluttered as Martin turned to leave the room. He fully expected Jon to be passed out by the time he returned, but he was actually laying right where he left him, eyes wide open. 

“Still awake?”

“Waiting for you,” Jon muttered, reaching over into Martin’s still empty side of the bed. 

He climbed under the sheets with a fond smile and turned off the lights before settling on his side to face the very silly man in his bed. 

Jon inhaled a big, elongated breath and let it out as an exhausted sigh. “We’re getting married,” he whispered.

“We are,” Martin whispered back fondly. “That’s sort of what all this was about.”

“I know, I just… You know, I never thought I’d get married. I never thought I would…” He paused to yawn. “I never thought anyone would deal with me long enough. I’m so…”

He trailed off and didn’t continue that statement, letting out another sigh. Martin couldn’t quite note his expression in the dark. 

“Do you remember when we met?” Jon said, sounding very distraught all of a sudden. “I was such a prick to you, even on the very first day we met.”

“Yes, I remember,” Martin said, skeptical of where this was heading. 

“Why was I like that?” he cried. “I don’t know how you liked me. You were so nice, even when I was… And now you want to marry me, of all people. I just can’t believe you want to marry me, Martin.”

“A lot’s happened between then and now, love,” he laughed. 

Jon gave a heavy exhale, sounding seconds from sleep. “You know how many times I almost died before I knew that I loved you?”

Martin clucked his tongue. “Let’s not do morbid right now, yeah?” he said. “For god’s sake, go to sleep.”

Jon turned and nestled close into Martin’s chest. Martin wrapped his arm around him and held him there, twisting his fingers in the ends of his tangled hair. 

“I love you so much,” Jon whispered.

“Say it again and it might start losing meaning,” Martin said, at which he heard a sharp intake of breath. “I’m just joking, just joking. Sorry.”

“I always mean it,” Jon said, distressed.

Martin kissed his head. “I know you do. I love you more than you can comprehend right now. Settle down and sleep, alright?”

“Alright.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> martin: good morning do you remember trying to snog me on the stairs  
> jon: ...well i do now


	10. wearing circles in the floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin wakes up in their new house to a little too much quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: depiction of a depressive episode
> 
> for once I’m sharing something that isn’t the sappiest of domestic fluff
> 
> for reference, this takes place before they're engaged, but after the chapter about Martin's birthday, so like a little over a year since the apocalypse

Martin woke up to an empty bed and grey light slipping through the drapes. The bare room sat stagnant around him and he found himself wondering for a moment if it was even his bedroom at all. Of course it was. They just hadn’t hung much on the walls just yet, waiting to get around to printing some photos and go searching for art they both liked. 

The house was still so new and unfamiliar, though they were slowly settling bit by bit. They’d just moved in a month ago to get a little farther out of central London and to be closer to Jon’s school after they’d offered him a full time position. It was an honest-to-god house, a front door, a back garden, two floors and a large attic all to themselves, not a flat in a building shared with others. It was the most residential street Martin had lived on since childhood, rows of homes on each side housing small families with cars parked out front, flowers hanging out of boxes in windows, and shrubs bracketing garden gates that led to welcoming flagstone paths. 

He could hear Jon downstairs, most likely making himself a cup of tea to start his Sunday. The sound of him present in the house was a minor relief, at least, an assurance he wasn’t dreaming. His mind jumped briefly to the hypothetical of if Jon had gone out for the morning and the thought of waking to an empty house quickened his breathing. 

It was a lot quieter here, much quieter than any place he’d lived in London before. Sometimes it reminded him of the safehouse, the peaceful, relieving quiet they woke to each day that contrasted so starkly with the noise of their lives before. Sometimes, like this morning, it threatened memories of another place, a coddling, oppressive silence that reached out and held his head underwater. 

Jon’s footsteps made their way upstairs and softly into the room. Martin didn’t quite have the energy to greet him at the moment. He faced away from the door, turned toward the window, face hidden from Jon as he set down a mug, maybe two, on his own bedside table. 

Jon slipped back under the covers and gently curled up and around Martin’s rounded shoulder, pressing a sweet, waking kiss deep into his cheek.

Martin turned his head into it and mustered a smile that felt deeply inadequate.

“Hello,” Jon said, his voice radiating a warmth that would usually fill him to the brim.

Martin said a weak, “Hi,” and let his head fall back into the pillow. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

He felt Jon go a bit rigid. “What for?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t--don’t feel right this morning.” 

Jon sat up and maneuvered himself around, seeming to land with his feet toward the headboard and his torso propped up, almost leaning against Martin’s back.

“Is it alright if I touch you?”

“Yeah,” Martin said. Jon’s fingers nestled into his hair and caressed lightly. “S’nice.”

“I brought you a cup of tea,” Jon said. “It might be terrible, but it’s here.”

He gave the half-hearted laugh Jon was looking for.

“Would you like it?”

He shook his head. “Thank you, though.”

Jon’s silence gripped his chest and he knew he’d said the wrong thing. He was making this out to look so much worse than it actually was. He should just sit up and drink the damn tea, but he’d already just said no. It made no sense to change his mind in a second like that. He felt suddenly like a stupid, petulant child. 

“Martin,” Jon said, now with an edge of worry. “Do you want to describe how you’re feeling?”

“I don’t know. I’m really sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon said, still smoothing his hair over and over.

They sat quiet together, all the while Martin searching for the words to explain. He couldn’t remember anything in particular that triggered this feeling, just that he’d woken and felt a familiar weight like the air was pressing down on his entire body, gripping his ribs and clouding his thoughts. He was grateful to not feel the bone chilling cold that once might have accompanied this years ago. 

He knew it was a burden to have to deal with someone like this, knew how irritated his mother and past partners had gotten when he suddenly wouldn’t get out of bed though he’d been fine the night before. He didn’t expect Jon to react this way, he never did. But he would be disappointed and concerned and doting and anxious, and Martin didn’t want that either. He wished he could experience this in a vacuum and have no effect on Jon whatsoever. If only he could just ask Jon to go away for the day, just pretend Martin didn’t exist until this spell blew over. 

“Sometimes, I wish I could still just disappear.”

Jon’s hand stilled in his hair. “What--what do you mean?”

Martin sighed. He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. That’s not what he meant at all, but now he’d said it, and surely doubled Jon’s worry, and he didn’t know how to soothe it. Or at least, he just couldn’t right now.

“Back, uh, during that year,” he began, “if I started to feel like this, I’d just go away. You know, I’d still be there, I wouldn’t actually  _ go _ to the… the actual place, but no one else would be able to see me. And that felt good. Felt right.” 

“That’s what  _ it  _ told you felt right,” Jon said, with a edge of familiar bitterness for the past. 

Martin shrugged. “Yeah. But I did feel it. Like it felt right. It was comfortable.” 

“Alright. I understand.”

He wasn’t sure if Jon actually did, but he was glad to leave it at that. After a moment, Jon asked, “Can I hold you?” 

His instinct was to say, _ Yes, please, and don’t let go, _ but a faceless voice in his brain swatted that down, sneering,  _ Withhold. Draw in. Keep quiet. Shrink until he can’t see you anymore. _ That voice used to wield a lot more power. He could recognize that these days, question it, and often overpower it with simple denial before he thought too hard about it. Finally, he nodded. 

Jon shuffled around again and pressed up against Martin’s back, gently shoving one arm under his head and wrapping the other over his waist and up to splay a hand firmly across his chest. 

“I’m here with you, for what it’s worth,” Jon said. “You’re not alone. Never again, not ever.”

Martin nodded, and then whispered, “I know.” 

“Good,” Jon said, and hooked his nose over Martin’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of his old t-shirt. They laid together for a while and Martin tried his hardest to feel Jon’s warmth in his bones, to let it melt the tension in his chest and ease the fog in his mind. It worked a little. What he could objectively know was that later, when his mind returned from this plunge, he would feel what it actually meant to him to have Jon wrapped around him in this moment. It was a bit funny, a bit baffling, that he could only see that fact, not feel it. He vaguely recalled an old debate about the difference between knowing and understanding. 

“I love you so very much,” Jon said, pulling him from his thoughts. 

“I love you, too,” he said, smaller than he meant to. 

The silence returned and some frantic voice inside screamed that he owed Jon an explanation.

“I know it’s gone,” Martin muttered. “But I can’t forget how it felt. I just remember sometimes, I remember believing it.” 

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Please stop that,” Jon said, smoothing a hand over his shoulder. “It’s alright. We can always get through it.”

Just then, something dawned on him and Martin covered his already hidden face with both hands. “We have plans today,” he mumbled in sodden distress.

“It’s just lunch,” Jon said. “We have time before then.”

Martin's eyes began to sting and he shook his head. “I--I don’t want to go. I just--I’m not sure I can.” 

“That’s alright, too,” Jon said, continuing to rub up and down his arm and shoulder. 

“Is it?” 

“Of course,” Jon said. “Of course.” 

“But Melanie and Georgie--” 

“They will understand. I’m sure they will.” 

Martin breathed deep through his sweaty palms.

“Listen,” Jon said, squeezing his arm lightly. “I’m just going to go give them a call. Let them know we’re going to reschedule. That way, it’s already off our plate for today and you don’t have to think about it at all.” 

He took a few more labored breaths through his hands and then finally nodded.

Jon squeezed his arm again. “Alright. I’m just going to pop downstairs to call Georgie, okay?”

“Okay.” 

Sound carried rather tremendously in this little old house. He could tell Jon was simply pacing around the foyer at the bottom of the stairs, not realizing how directly that spot funneled sound straight upstairs. The corner of his mouth twitched upward at this. That felt good.

“Everything’s fine,” he heard Jon saying over the phone in a hushed voice. “Martin is just having a bit of a rough morning. I think we should probably just stay in today.” His pacing took him momentarily out of earshot, only to return a moment later. “...Thanks again for understanding. Of course, I will. Talk to you soon.” 

Jon came back upstairs and rested on the edge of the bed. Martin took a deep breath and finally followed a moment’s impulse to turn over onto his back and see Jon fully for the first time that morning. 

“Hello, my darling,” Jon said, lifting Martin’s hand to his lips. 

“Hi,” he said, a timid reset of the way their morning began.

“They’re glad to reschedule. They send their love.” 

Martin nodded and Jon climbed back into bed with him, beckoning for him to roll over into his arms. He obliged and nestled into the embrace, searching for the sense of overwhelming gratitude he often felt in this position. Again, he knew it was there, just couldn’t quite feel it. That would have to do for now. 

“We don’t have to do a thing today,” Jon said, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Okay,” he said. “Can I--can I just go back to sleep? For now?” 

“Of course,” Jon said. “I’ll be right here.” 

“You don’t have to--you don’t have to stay, I don’t want you to be--”

Jon hushed him. “I just mean I won’t go far. You don’t have to worry.” 

He nodded. “Okay. Thank you, Jon.” He rolled back onto his side and Jon went with him, fixing his arms firmly around Martin once more. 

“Stay with me,” Jon whispered into his hair. “Please.” 

Martin nodded.

“Just promise me you’ll…” Jon took a sharp breath. “Promise me you’ll never try to disappear.” 

Martin huffed a humorless laugh. “Well, I don’t think that’s quite possible anymore.” 

Jon shook his head. “No, I know. Not like that. I mean… Don’t try to hide from me. Ask for space if you need it, of course, but… Please never think you have to hide from me.” 

His eyes filled with stupid tears and he nodded again. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact i'm away right now and I forgot my little post-it i keep on my desk where I plotted out the timeline of their lives and i had to ask my roommate to send me a picture of it
> 
> I was like please try to refrain from reading it and ask no questions


	11. brave face, talk so lightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets Martin and some of his work friends at a pub and conversation turns a bit delicate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: drinking, brief depictions of grief
> 
> this takes place a few months after they're married

Jon waded through the crowded pub, led by the sound of a familiar voice within the din to a table along the back wall. Martin sat with his back to him facing his two colleagues, beside an empty chair meant for him. As he approached, Martin’s words came into focus.

“She  _ really _ thinks she knows it all just because she went to bloody--”

Jon gently laid his hands on his shoulders from behind.

“Does she, now?”

“Well, look who decided to show,” Martin cried, tipping his head back to solicit a brief peck in greeting. “Oh, you’re freezing.” 

Jon shucked off his coat and sank into the vacant seat beside him. “The bus was late. So sorry, darling.”

Martin squinted at him. “The bus was an hour and a half late?”

Jon looked down at the table. “Well, I might have stayed a bit late to finish up with something but I swear, the bus was late, too.” 

“It’s alright, we’re just two whole drinks ahead of you now,” Martin said.

“Well, I don’t expect to catch up at this point.” 

Across from them were two of Martin’s friends from work: Lena, who Jon knew, and a man he’d never seen before. He figured he was the one Martin had told him about who had only started a few months ago, but became fast friends with Martin’s small circle.

“Nice to see you again, Jon,” Lena said. They met at the Library’s holiday party last year and got on quite quickly, bonding over a particular author Martin pointed out they both liked. She was a bit younger than they were, and once her inhibitions were somewhat lowered, she had asked about their infamous connection with Melanie King since she used to follow her on YouTube. Jon had also become a bit too forthcoming by that point and unwisely dropped the tidbit that he had, in fact, been both stabbed with a knife by Melanie King and in her wedding party last year. Somehow, rather than scaring her off completely, it had endeared Jon to Lena, and she quickly became fond of their mysterious stories from their previous workplace. 

Martin laid a hand on the back of Jon’s neck and turned to the man beside Lena. 

“Russell, have you met my husband, Jon?”

“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, stretching a hand across the table. He had a firm handshake and a keen, alluring smile, the kind of highly likable person that might make Jon panic if Martin weren’t there. 

“I’ve heard you’re quite the life of the party in your little department,” Jon said. 

Russell tossed his hair back and grinned. “I’m glad you’ve been prepared, then. What are you drinking? I was about to get a round.” 

He stepped away towards the bar and Lena and Martin got Jon up to speed on the current conversation. By the time he returned, Martin had gotten out all his contempt for their holier-than-thou supervisor and Lena changed the subject away from shop talk.

“Martin was telling us about your student interrogations before you arrived,” she said with an amused smile.

Since the beginning of his teaching escapades, the topic of his personal history had become a frequently discussed topic among his students, based on the scars he couldn’t hide and his odd answers to impertinent questions about his past. Jon gave him a questioning side eye and Martin shook his head to soothe his concerns. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve told them quite a bit about our old job,” he said. “They know it was weird.” 

“Sounded real toxic, mate,” Russell said. “Glad you got out of it.” 

“So are we,” Jon said, still unsure exactly what and how much Martin told them. 

“What do the kids even think?” Lena asked. “Like, what do you think the prevailing theory is?”

“Well, “ Jon said. “The other day, a student asked me if my husband and I were retired spies.”

“What?” Martin laughed. “You didn’t even tell me about that one.”

Jon nodded. “He said there’d been a rumor--or a theory circulating, more like--that my husband and I met as spies for opposing factions,” he explained. “They thought maybe we were meant to kill each other until we fell in love and ran away together instead.” 

“Where’d they get that from?” Martin asked.

“I have no idea,” Jon said. “It’s one of the more fanciful ones, I’ll admit.”

“What did you tell him?” Lena asked.

“Nothing,” Jon said, taking a sip of his drink. 

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Like, you told him he was wrong, or you suspiciously withheld information?”

Jon hesitated. “Perhaps the latter.”

Martin looked at him with wild eyes.

“Jonathan Sims, you did not.” 

Jon perked up and looked expectantly until Martin realized what he’d said. 

“What?” he said, and then his brow shot up. “Oh my god, that’s not it anymore, is it?” 

“No, it’s not,” Jon said with a wicked grin. “From now on, when you want to admonish me with my full name, you’ve got to drag your own into it.” 

Martin threw a hand over his face and laughed into it, leaning forward onto the table. 

“It should serve as a grim reminder of what you’ve done by marrying me,” Jon added.

“Serves me right, I suppose.” 

“Did you take his name?” Lena asked.

“I did,” Jon said. “I was rather done with mine. No need to keep it. And I liked the idea of becoming someone new with him.” 

Lena’s mouth fell open for a moment. “That’s too sweet,” she muttered. “Really, seriously, too sweet.”

“My students are having a harder time with it than I am,” Jon said. “I expect I’ll be Mr. Sss-Blackwood for the rest of the term, at least.” 

“Apparently, your husband’s having a hard time with it too,” Lena quipped.

Martin threw up his hands in excuse. “Look, he’s only been Jonathan Blackwood for two months, now. I’m used to verbally berating Jonathan Sims.” 

“Well, Jonathan Sims is dead, and good riddance to him,” Jon said, raising his drink slightly.

Lena and Russell laughed and Martin shook his head. “The theatrics,” he muttered, unable to put away his smile entirely.

The evening stretched on and Jon admired the steadily burgeoning flush of Martin’s face as he got tipsier and louder and cheekier, and as the alcohol warmed his own blood, he was overwhelmed with affection for the bastard he married. He was sure he was sporting a rather undignified grin, but he couldn’t help it. 

Martin got fired up so easily when drinking and became a force of righteous gossip to be reckoned with. He dropped snide comments about their more pretentious coworkers wrapped up in his innocent effervescence, his disarming wit always making someone snort into their glass in surprise. 

Jon recalled a day long ago in the break room when Tim had been complaining under his breath about Elias’s pompous countenance. Martin suddenly burst out with, “Do you reckon he’s always sticking his nose up so far because of how tight he slicks back his hair?”

Jon remembered choking out a laugh and noting that Martin looked taken aback by his reaction, so he’d shaken it off and retreated to his office with his cup of tea. 

“Martin, you have got yourself one hell of an admirer over here,” Russell said with a cheeky nod towards Jon. He snapped his head down towards his drink and let out a sheepish laugh.

“I’m used to it,” Martin said, leering over at him. “He’s got a pretty intense gaze.”

Jon rolled his eyes at the private joke. 

Russell sighed and dropped his cheek into his hand. “It’s over for all of you the day I find someone who looks at me like that. I won’t shut up about it for a moment.” 

Lena scoffed. “Russell, you find someone who looks at you like that every other week and you  _ don’t  _ shut up about it.”

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Hm. You might be right. Well, then I guess it’s over for you already.”

The table chuckled at this and Martin’s laugh slipped into a sigh. “Doesn’t he remind you of Tim, Jon?”

He looked over to assess Martin’s expression, which remained cheerful but looked a bit fragile. Martin had once warned him that he could tend to be a bit of a weepy drunk, but Jon hadn’t experienced that so much in recent years. Now, it was more likely for him to blurt out something bittersweet framed as an innocent memory in the hopes that he wouldn’t actually get sad about it. It was a dangerous game, but Martin liked to test the waters with his own emotions sometimes, to venture into risky territory to see if it wasn’t quite as bad as he remembered. 

Jon glanced at his husband’s friend, all charming swagger, toothy grins, and saucy quips. His voice was a bit reedier and his dress sense was more subdued, but Martin was right. He smiled. “He does quite a bit, yes.”

“Who’s Tim?” Russell asked, waggling an eyebrow. “He sounds wonderful.”

Martin went quiet and averted his eyes, though his friend didn’t seem to notice.

“Ah, he was--he was someone we used to work with. A good friend,” Jon supplied. 

“And when can I meet this Tim?” Russell said. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to meet myself.” 

Jon quietly took Martin’s hand under the table. “He’s, ah… He passed away a few years ago, a--an accident.” 

Russell’s expression was suddenly washed with remorse. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he said in earnest. “I didn’t mean to make light of it, just me and my stupid mouth.” 

“It’s alright,” Jon said. “You didn’t know.” 

Martin stayed noticeably quiet, and Jon could practically see him berating himself for bringing it up while fighting with the grief that crept in after all. Jon attempted to swoop in again.

“He was, ah--he was very funny,” he said. “He could make me laugh even when I really didn’t want to. And he always tried to make everyone feel at ease. I’m glad Martin has someone like that in his life again.” 

“It’s nice,” Martin said quietly, lifting his gaze to Russell. “It’s nice to be reminded of him. So… thanks.”

He gave an awkward laugh and smiled. “I’m just being myself, apparently, so… any time, I suppose.”

Martin exhaled deeply and shook his head. “Right, sorry about that. Didn’t mean to bring down the mood.”

“No worries, mate,” Russell said. 

Lena seconded that with a nod. “No worries at all.”

“I know you tell a lot of wild stories, but seriously, let me know if I ever go too far,” Russell said. 

“You’re always there for us, and we’re here for you, too,” Lena added. 

Martin waved their kind words away. “Oh, I’m alright. Enough of that. I’m going to go get another round. Everyone in?”

He took drink orders and Jon squeezed his hand tight under the table before he set off for the bar. 

“Seriously, I’m really sorry about that,” Russell said again. “I hope he’s alright.” 

Jon shot a glance over his shoulder and saw Martin chatting with the bartender with his typical cordial warmth restored. “He is,” he said with a reassuring nod. 

“Okay, good,” Russell said, relieved. “He’s the best friend I’ve made since university. Don’t want to go ruining it with my bullshit.” 

Lena elbowed him. “And what does that make me?”

“Second best, obviously,” he said. “To Martin? Come on, now.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Lena said, her shoulders sagging knowingly. 

Jon smiled into his drink.

“How’d you snag one like him, huh, Jon?” Russell asked, attempting to return levity to the table. 

“A sick twist of fate, quite honestly,” Jon said. “But I couldn’t be better for it.” 

The conversation quickly recovered once Martin returned. Jon spent the rest of the evening being more careful when he stole glances at him, lest he be called out again. 

They left the pub just in time to catch the last bus to their neighborhood.

“You’re a good friend, Martin,” Jon said as they walked hand in gloved hand to their bus stop. 

Martin scoffed and looked at him sideways, his breath huffing out as mist in the frigid air. “Are you trying to friendzone me now? Because as you reminded me earlier, it’s a little late for that, Mr.  _ Blackwood-- _ ”

“Shut up,” Jon said with a laugh. “I mean to everyone. You’re just--it’s a gift to see how much people enjoy being around you. It makes me feel very lucky.” 

Martin groaned and threw his head back. 

“Christ, Jon. I already almost cried in a pub tonight. Don’t make me burst into tears on the street.” 

Jon chuckled, but wasn’t about to back down. They slowed to a halt as they approached the bus shelter and he swung around to face him, taking both Martin’s hands. “I’m serious. You’re the kind of person everyone hopes to have as a friend.”

“I don’t know about that when I’m bringing up our dead friends while everyone is just trying to--”

“For god’s sake, Martin. Take the compliment.” 

He huffed. “Fine,” he said quietly. “Thank you, Jon.”

“For example, you won’t be getting an invite to drinks with my work friends any time soon, because I haven’t quite got any.”

“Oh, you do,” Martin argued. “You’re just afraid of them.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re always afraid people don’t actually like you unless they explicitly admit it, but when do people ever do that, really?” 

Jon’s mouth quirked upwards. “Your drunken honesty is admirable, Martin.” 

“I’m not that drunk,” he argued. 

“Drunker than I am.”

“You were two hours late!”

“An hour and a half.” 

“Whatever, Mr. Blackwood.” 

Jon dropped his hands with a playful scoff and turned to press his back to Martin’s front, a silent request for him to wrap his arms around him and keep him warm until their bus came. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this what you wanted when you said you wanted drunk Martin
> 
> also, one of my favorite jokes is jon telling people that prominent youtuber melanie king stabbed him but it’s chill, they’re friends now
> 
> does anyone have a desire for a chronology guide? or is it clear when in their lives chapters take place? Or do you just not give a fuck   
> all are valid opinions


	12. always knew the melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some moments leading up to Ellen's arrival in their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen I’m on vacation this week and have so much time and keep shaping up all these pieces i’ve had hanging around for months   
> I wanna say don’t expect a four-update week but also who knows

Jon looked up from the pile of marking he was chipping away at and his eye caught on Martin splayed out along the sofa across the way. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d fallen asleep, but his heart leapt a bit at the utterly peaceful sight. Martin’s head lolled back against the armrest, his eyes softly shut and his mouth resting in an almost-smile. His large hands were folded together, rising and falling with the motion of his chest. 

An image flashed before Jon’s eyes, bringing to mind something he never used to consider with any hint of seriousness or desire. It happened all the time recently, popping up in quiet moments, when he let his mind wander to the future. The idea of speaking it out loud felt near impossible, perhaps out of fear that speaking it would make it a reality, or give Martin the wrong idea about what he wanted. He wasn’t even sure it  _ wasn’t _ what he wanted. 

He rubbed his eyes to wash the image away and groaned.

“Bad essay?” 

Jon pulled his hands away from his face to see that Martin was actually rather awake, peering over at him.

“Oh,” he said with a laugh. “No, no, I--I, um…”

“You okay?”

“Oh, yes, y--fine.”

Martin gave him a side eye. “You sure?”

He shook his head. “I am. It’s nothing, I swear. I was just…” He rubbed at his eyes again. “You know when an image just pops into your head unprompted? Like, you weren’t even thinking anything of the sort, never have before, but it just… Oh, not like… Nothing, ah… creepy.” 

Martin squinted at him. “You mean like an intrusive thought? What was it?”

“Well, not exactly, it’s nothing… Nothing bad, I suppose. It’s just…” 

He really didn’t want to explain, but Martin was staring at him with concern and his questions wouldn’t relent until he’d gotten details out of him. 

He took a deep breath.

“I, ah… You were laying there so peaceful, and I thought… Well. I suddenly imagined… I imagined you with a baby. Sleeping on your chest.” 

Martin blinked. “A baby?”

Jon covered his face in embarrassment. From behind his hands, he heard Martin shift around until his feet were on the ground. 

“So… just checking,” Martin said. “Was it just a passing thought or is that something you actually want to talk about for real?” 

He shook his head and tried to rip his hands away from his eyes, but couldn’t for the time being. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I’ve never seriously thought about--about--”

“We could… We could talk about it, Jon. Without it meaning anything. Just talking.” 

“I know, I just--”

“Do you want to come over here?”

Jon managed to drop his hands into his lap. He hesitated a moment before depositing his papers on the coffee table and moving to join Martin on the sofa. 

“It’s just that it seems like it’s actually bothering you, not just a passing thing,” Martin said, sliding a hand over Jon’s shoulder and squeezing a bit. 

“It happens all the time,” Jon blurted. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve never thought about--I never thought I’d be one for… I never wanted that. Until very recently. You’ll be making dinner and I’ll look at you and imagine you holding a baby on your hip, or you’ll come into bed and I’ll think, ‘Imagine if he’d just put a child down to sleep.’ Or when I’m out and I see a little family, I imagine what we’d look like in their place, pushing a pram around the park, and--and I’ll suddenly find myself thinking fifteen years down the road about how our lives would change, and I...” He trailed off, shaking his head absently.

“You sound like you’re admitting to something depraved,” Martin said, with a bemused smile. “I think it’s actually pretty normal to get a bit broody at this point.” 

Jon let out a noise of minor disgust. 

Martin ran his hand down his arm and took his hand. “Well, let’s start here. How does it feel when you imagine… that? Before the panic hits.” 

Jon took a massive inhale and let it out as a sigh. “It feels... nice.”

“Nice.”

He heaved another breath and shook his head, looking up at the ceiling.

“It’s the sweetest thing I could imagine. Saccharine… beautiful.” 

“And is that a bad thing?”

“No,” he said, with reticence. 

“Then maybe it’s  _ not _ a bad thing.”

Jon gave him a look for his faulty logic. “I just don’t understand,” he said. “I’ve never wanted children my entire life. Since I was a teenager, honestly, I’ve actively not wanted children. I don’t even  _ like _ children, but I keep thinking I--what if I could? Like a child, that is. That we raised.”

Martin tilted his head tenderly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I… didn’t want you to think--I was afraid that you… I didn’t want to give you false hope. That it’s something I wanted. But maybe I do. Maybe I  _ could _ want it. Maybe--I don’t know.”

“Jon,” Martin said. “It’s a really, really scary thought for me too. I don’t want you to think you’re holding  _ me _ back. If it was something I wanted for sure, I would have told you by now.”

He nodded. “I know. Alright.” 

“But maybe we… keep that conversation open for now? Talk about it if it comes to mind?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, alright.”

“Next time it pops up, just tell me. And I’ll do the same?” 

Jon looked up at him. “Do you? Think about it?”

Martin shrugged. “Here and there. Same as you, I think. I look at other people and wonder what we’d be like in their shoes, but… There’s a lot I’m afraid of, too.” 

“Why?” Jon demanded immediately. “Martin, you’d be--you’d be the most wonderful father, so gentle, and kind, and I--I’d be so cold, and distant, and--”

“Jon, is that really what you think you’d be like?”

His jaw snapped shut. “It’s--is that… not how you’d describe me?” 

“Not for a while, now,” Martin said with a shrug. “You’ve warmed up a lot.”

“Oh.”

“I’d like to think I have something to do with it,” he added with a grin. 

“I’m positive you do,” Jon said, smiling at the floor. 

For a moment, Martin just rubbed his thumb back and forth over Jon’s knuckles. 

“You know, Jon,” he said. “We have all the time in the world now.”

Jon stared at his hands in Martin’s.

“There are a lot of ways we could spend that time,” he continued. “And raising a child is definitely one of them. It’s an option. That’s all it is.” 

“An option,” he said. “Right. Okay.” 

*

She was named Ellen when she was born and she was just over a year old when the adoption was finalized. They didn’t feel right about changing the name she was given at birth, so she would be Ellen Blackwood on the day she became theirs. 

One night, a few months before they were to take her home for good, Jon stared at the ceiling next to Martin in bed.

“I’ve had a thought,” he said. “You can tell me if it’s foolish, or… too sentimental or…” 

“Will do,” Martin said, looking amused already. “What is it?” 

“How would you feel about giving Ellen a middle name?”

Some of his amusement drained away, replaced by sincerity. “I’ve thought about it. Do you have something in mind?” 

“Well,” Jon began, shrinking in on himself. “Yes, I, ah… What would you say to… What if we named her after Sasha? For a middle name.” 

Martin’s breath caught. “Jon,” he whispered.

“I-I had just been thinking about… Well. I just think it would be a nice way to honor her, and everything we lost, for whatever it’s worth. I know what she meant to you. And me, but I know… I know you were close.” 

“I’d…” Martin said, his eyes filling with tears. “You know, I’ve honestly thought about it, too. And I think that would be lovely, Jon. I would really like that.”

“Alright,” Jon said with a smile. “Ellen Sasha it is, then.”

Martin wrinkled his nose. “They don’t sound  _ spectacular _ together,” he said. 

Jon hummed, sounding it out again in his mind. “Yes, but what’s a middle name other than a spot for parents to stow some emotional baggage?” 

Martin huffed a laugh. “Ellen Sasha Blackwood,” he said, feeling out the sound of it. “Okay.” 

They laid in silence for a moment and Jon reached over when he heard Martin’s breathing deepen. He immediately rolled into Jon’s arms and he held him tight. 

“God, Jon. I just wish they were here,” he choked. “Both of them. I wish they could see us now, and how we’ve… How we’ve changed, and what we’ve done, and you, I just… I wish they could know you, you know? I wish they knew you today. I wish they knew us together.” 

Jon bit his lip and grief clenched down on his chest. He ran his hand up Martin’s back to settle at the base of his neck. “I wish I hadn’t wasted my time with them. I wish I had the chance to… to show them that I cared.” 

Martin exhaled and shook his head, tucked under Jon’s chin. “They were the best, Jon.”

“I know,” he said, petting Martin’s hair. “I know.” 

Jon kissed his head firmly as he felt warm, silent tears bleed through the shoulder of his shirt. For a moment he just whispered soothing nothings into his hair. 

“Can you imagine what they’d say if they knew we got married?” Jon said, attempting to lighten the mood. 

“Oh my god,” Martin said, affording a shaky laugh. “Tim would really go off the deep end. He used to make fun of me so much for having a crush on you.” 

“I’d make fun of you for having a crush on me back then, too.”

Martin chuckled. “Yeah, it would seriously throw them for a loop to see us now. Saviors of the apocalypse, whatever, but settled down together and about to have a kid? That’s downright unrealistic.” 

Jon breathed a laugh into his curls and then tipped Martin’s head back so he could kiss his forehead.

“Well,” Martin said, swiping at his eyes. “Enough of that. God, here’s to hoping I don’t take this weepiness with me into fatherhood, huh?” 

“It’s alright if you do,” Jon said.

“Yeah, yeah, but what good am I gonna do for a crying baby if I just cry right back?”

“I’m sure a lot of parents do that,” Jon said, stroking the last of the tears off his cheek. 

Martin sighed. “Yeah, alright.” 

*

“Do you feel ready?” 

Jon turned in Martin’s arms to face him. “No, and I never expected to,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Martin said. “I know. Me neither.”

Tomorrow was the day they went to pick up Ellen and they’d just turned the lights off and nestled into bed. The only thing between them and parenthood was trying to get a passable night of sleep. 

Jon took his face in his hands. “We’re as ready as we can be.” 

Martin let out a shaky laugh. “I didn’t think you’d be so calm about this.” 

“I’m surprised you can’t tell I’m a wreck,” Jon said, stroking his thumb across his cheek. 

“Chalk it up to therapy?” Martin offered.

“I’d like to think I’ve naturally mellowed with age.” 

“Sure you have,” he quipped back, with a fraction of the bite he usually managed. 

Jon nestled his head into Martin’s chest, wrapping his arm under Martin’s and across his back. He felt Martin’s breathing quicken and rubbed a soothing hand over his shoulder blades. 

“Jon?”

He popped his head back up. “Yes?”

“I’m petrified.” Martin’s voice came out rough and clipped.

“Oh, Martin…” 

He exhaled deeply. “Look, I--I know we’ve talked circles around how I didn’t exactly have stellar role models for parents, but I’m serious. I don’t know anything, I don’t know anything at all--”

“Martin.” 

“I can’t, I can’t do what she--I can’t be like my mum, I can’t be like her, or--”

“Martin, you would never.”

“I could, though. I’m so afraid I will--or I’ll just lose it and bail because this isn’t what I was made to do, and I--”

“You wouldn’t. Martin, come on now. Please listen to me.”

“I’m not sure I can do this, Jon. I’m really not, I--I could really, seriously fuck this up. It’s not fair to her--”

Jon finally hushed him, and he quieted to erratic, heaving breaths. “Martin. My darling. Please hear me out. You’re prepared for this. You’ve read everything you could possibly read--”

“Not  _ everything. _ ”

“--and as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always been a natural caretaker. To a fault, even. To your own detriment.” 

“For adults,” he rebutted. “I’m good at taking care of adults, because I can understand what they need, and I’m not solely responsible for their safety and the quality of their entire life and future and the formation of their psyche--”

“You’re not solely responsible for anything,” Jon said. “We’re together in this, both of us.”

Tears formed and he took a shaky breath. “I am just  _ so _ afraid I will wreck this at some point, or all the time, I just... I never want to hurt her, I couldn’t--couldn’t live with myself--”

“Martin,” Jon said again, softer, sliding his thumbs up to brush tears away. “Martin, you… Well, I’ll put it like this. You probably… At some point, you probably will hurt her. So will I. I think it’s impossible for parents to  _ never _ hurt their child, not even once, but I know you won’t do it in the ways you’re afraid you will. Never intentionally and never beyond repair. We’ll be better than that.”

“How do you know?”

Jon shook his head with a soothing smile. “Because… We’ve fought to be. We both had… pretty subpar upbringings, not to mention, you know. Everything else we’ve been through. We’ve already beat the odds, which were really stacked against us, to be honest. We’re here. We love each other and we’re happy together. We’re not who we were raised to be.”

Martin stared at him with wide eyes as he tried to even his breathing. Eventually, he nodded through a shaky sigh and drew Jon close, head ducked onto his shoulder.

Jon continued on, relieved he was getting through somewhat. “If you love her anything like the way you love me, I can promise you, she will never feel a lack.” Martin sputtered a watery laugh. “I am only hoping I’ll be able to exhibit as much of an outpouring as you will.”

“You will,” Martin whispered. “You’re a secret sap and you know it.” 

“Not so much a secret anymore, I’d say.” 

“No,” he said. “Not at all.” 

Jon drew his fingers through Martin’s hair and peeked down at his face.

“Feel any more ready?” he asked. 

“No, but I feel a bit better,” Martin said. “You?”

Jon gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m bracing to feel unprepared for the rest of my natural life.” 

“As long as we’re unprepared together, I guess.” 

“Yes,” Jon said, punctuated with a kiss on the lips. “Now, we should really try to get some sleep.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm nearing the end of my stocked up pieces.... I have a few more for sure but idk what happens after that 
> 
> anyone have requests though i cannot promise i will fill them


	13. inherit your blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellen has a nightmare and Jon and Martin notice how sharing their past takes its toll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place about 6 months after “this is not the house that pain built” (the fic) so Ellen is 16, almost 17

“Did you tie your tie in the dark?”

Jon stopped short as he entered the kitchen, hand flying to the unruly knot at his throat. “Good morning, darling,” he crooned, affronted. 

“It’s a mess. Come here,” Martin said, mercilessly beckoning him over. 

Jon rolled his eyes and grabbed the cup of tea that was waiting for him on the counter. “It’s fine.” 

“Oh, shut up. Come here.”

“I’m not a child,” Jon grumbled, stepping towards Martin anyway so his tie could be swiftly taken in hand.

“Then don’t tie your tie like one.”

“This is precisely why I never wear ties,” he muttered.

Martin completely undid the knot Jon had butchered and retied it, quick and neat. 

“There you go,” he said, smoothing his hands down the tie and then over Jon’s shoulders. 

“Guys?”

Both turned their heads at the sound of Ellen’s voice. They found her standing in the kitchen doorway, hands twisted together, eyes dark and glassy. She never came downstairs on a school morning before showering and dressing, but she looked like she’d just rolled out of bed. 

“I’m not really feeling well,” she said, a bit hoarse and watery. “Is it okay if I stay home from school today?” 

“Of course,” Martin said, his brow knitting in concern. “We’ll call you in.”

“Thanks,” she said. She hovered in the doorway for a moment, looking unsure if she wanted to step away yet.

“What kind of not-well is it?” he pressed. It wasn’t like her to stay home. 

She shook her head and averted her eyes. “Just--just not well. I’m just going to go lie back down.” She made to head back up the stairs but Martin followed a few steps.

“Can I at least feel your head? Just to be sure.”

“No, I’m fine. It’s not--it’s not--” She halted on the stairs, turning her head toward the wall to hide her face. 

“Jon, call the school?” Martin said, hushed. “Come here, love. Come sit down.” 

He held his hand out to gently beckon her back down the few steps she’d climbed. She nodded through unshed tears and shallow breaths, following him into the living room while Jon quickly called in her absence. 

Martin sat her down on the couch and sat beside her. As soon as she settled, she burst properly into tears and he reached over to rub circles on her back. 

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong? You don’t have to, but maybe we could help.”

She wiped harshly at her eyes. “It’s so stupid,” she spat. 

“I bet it’s not,” Martin said. 

Some silent moments passed, filled only with Ellen’s labored breaths as Martin waited patiently. Once off the phone, Jon tentatively made his way in to perch behind him on the arm of the sofa.

“I… It’s so stupid,” she began. “I had a really bad dream and now I can’t get rid of the feeling. I can’t stop thinking about it and I’ve barely slept, and I could probably just get on with it if I didn’t have this feeling in my chest, like someone’s grabbing my lungs, and--and I feel like I’m going to vomit but also not at all, so I don’t think I’m actually sick, I’m just--”

“Hey,” Martin said. “It’s alright. I understand what you’re feeling.”

“I feel like a stupid little kid,” she said through gritted teeth. “Nothing happened. It was just a dream.” 

“Dreams can feel very real,” he said, continuing to rub her back. “Dad and I both still have nightmares we can’t shake for days. It’s not a childish thing at all.”

She rolled her eyes and took a shaky breath. “Yeah, but you guys--you went through a--a lot, and I’ve never--”

“Oh, Ellen, no,” Jon said. “That’s not how it works.” 

Martin shook his head. “None of that matters, El. Something’s really upset you and there’s no deciding whether you have a right to be upset or not.”

She stared as if he was talking nonsense and then looked away towards the floor as his words sank in.

“Do you want to tell us about it?” Martin asked. “Sometimes talking can help loosen that big ball of worry in your chest, even if it’s just by a bit.” 

“I don’t know, it’s not--I know it wasn’t real, I just--”

“It doesn’t have to be real to have been truly scary,” Jon said.

She heaved out another sigh and blinked up at the ceiling, willing the words to come.

“Take your time, love,” Martin said. 

Jon nodded and added, “There’s no rush.”

But Ellen shook her head all the same. “You guys are gonna be late. I don’t want to make you late,” she muttered, swabbing at her damp eyes with her sleeve. 

“I’m not worried about that one bit.” Martin turned to Jon to back him up and he shook his head.

She squinted as if she didn’t quite believe them, but soon nodded. They gave her a moment until she evened her breathing enough to begin. 

“It was so realistic,” she said. “I can remember it like it actually happened.” Behind him, Jon grasped gently at the fabric of Martin’s shirt. 

She went on to describe a terrible, trawling narrative about the dawn of another apocalypse that Jon and Martin had to leave her behind to fight once more. It seemed like her subconscious had taken elements of how the events all those years ago were portrayed in the public these days and blended them with what they had told her themselves in the last few months. It all made for a horrific cocktail of images and ideas, the worst of which being that her dads were too obligated to a higher cause to stay with her at the end of the world.

“Oh, my love,” Martin said, gently squeezing her knee. “I’m so sorry. That’s really awful.” He opened his arms and she wasted no time falling into them, wrapping hers around him and Jon behind him. Jon smoothed a hand over her still sleep-mussed hair and held both of them tight.

“None of that would ever happen, I hope you know,” Martin added, with a kiss on her head.

“I know it was just a dream,” she said. “But I--it’s like my body doesn’t know that and I can’t get out of it.” 

“I know the feeling,” Jon said. “It’s very frustrating, but nothing to feel ashamed of.”

She heaved a deep sigh and lifted her head off Martin’s shoulder, looking defeated and utterly exhausted.

“You know, I actually… feel a bit better. Should I just go to school?” she said.

Martin batted that suggestion out of the air with a dismissive hand. “Absolutely not. Take it easy today. Don’t worry about anything but feeling better.”

She rolled her eyes. “But I’m not--I’m not actually sick, I’m fine.”

“This is an entirely valid kind of sick, I promise,” Jon said.

“And a perfectly valid reason for taking a day off,” Martin added. 

Ellen shook her head. “But why get behind if I--” 

“You could use a day off, love,” Martin said gently. “It’s important to take care of yourself when your mind’s not one hundred percent.” 

“Give yourself a break,” Jon said, knowing full well he never took his own advice. “You won’t miss much.” 

“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay.”

“Go on, get back in bed and try to catch up on some sleep,” Martin said. “Will you be okay by yourself all day?”

She nodded. “I’ll be fine, Dad.” 

“You’ll text us if you need anything?” 

“Of course.”

They sent her back upstairs and quickly pulled themselves together to hurry out the door. Jon wouldn’t be too late, as they lived within walking distance of the school he worked at. Martin had a considerable bus commute into Central London, but he managed to shoot a message to his colleagues that he’d been held up by some family business. He wasn’t worried. His supervisor was chronically late, anyway. 

He and Jon didn’t usually leave the house at the same time, so the several-block walk together to Martin’s bus stop was actually an unexpected treat, for what it was worth. 

“Have we told her too much?” Jon said just after Martin closed the front gate.

“Well, look. She’s  _ our _ daughter,” he said, joining him and taking his hand as they embarked. “She’s way closer to it than most kids her age. There’s no hiding from that, unless we want to pull back on the sharing.” 

“I know. You’re right,” Jon said, through a heavy sigh. “I just hate it.” 

“I know, love.”

His grip tightened a bit on Martin’s hand. “I don’t want to keep hiding it from her, I just… I wish there was a way to tell her the facts without all the... trauma and whatnot.”

“Bit impossible to separate the two, I’d say.”

“I know,” Jon said. 

“What would you have said back then?” Martin teased, turning on his ominous Archivist impression. “‘That’s rather the point, isn’t it? To fill every living being with unending dread--’”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Jon said. Martin gave his hand a playful squeeze in lieu of a verbal apology. “Well, besides that, I don’t like that she feels some sort of need to... minimize her pain in the face of our past.” 

“Yeah, that’s not great,” Martin said. “We’ll have to talk about that. Change it if we’ve done anything to make her feel like that.” 

“God, I hope not.” 

They approached the bus stop and Martin turned to lay his hands on Jon’s shoulders.

“She’s working through it,” he said. “She’ll be okay.”

“Yes,” Jon sighed. “Alright.”

It had been just over six months since Jon had his first talk with Ellen about their past and since then, they’d answered her questions and told her more stories, doing their best to keep it informative and not so heavy. But the nature of the subject made that understandably difficult. She mostly took their dismal history in stride, which was why it was interesting to see the effect it had on her actually manifest like it did in her dream. Martin theorized that it got to her a lot more than she was willing to let on. 

“I love you,” Martin said, scrubbing a thumb over Jon’s cheek. “Have a good day, alright?” 

“I love you, too.” Jon craned up for a kiss goodbye and continued on his way down the road.

Martin had in fact missed the bus he’d usually catch and ended up waiting twenty minutes for the next one. As he stood waiting, he couldn’t get his daughter off his mind, turning over and over the strange, healing world she’d grown up in. Jon struggled as they got deeper in the weeds with what they told her. Martin knew he often wished he could disown his past entirely and rehashing it to Ellen made him quickly shrink back into shame. He certainly pushed back and argued when Ellen insinuated he was any sort of hero. As much as Jon had come to terms with in the last twenty years, his guilt was deep and forever stubborn. 

Sometimes, Martin tried to reframe it for him, tried to insist that they had in fact saved the world, regardless of what it took to get there. They single handedly remade the world they lived and raised their daughter in. Sometimes, Martin wore him down enough to admit that at the very least, he deserved peace. And conversely, Ellen deserved to know her dads fully. She’d proven time and again that no matter what they told her, she only looked back at them with love and admiration. That was hard for Jon to grapple with. 

When Martin’s bus arrived, he sat behind a couple of students who looked a couple years older than Ellen. He listened to them chatting idly about their classes and felt the swell of pride he sometimes got when he thought of this generation born after the world changed back. He and Jon had rid the world of something they would now never have to know, only ever in lingering stories. He wasn’t sure he would have contemplated that as much if they’d never had a child of their own.

Ellen would know fear in her life, of course. She would face danger and heartbreak and injustice and dread. But she’d never be subjected to the kind of unfathomable, inscrutable evil they were. There was always comfort in that. Martin closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest until his stop was called, sporting a gentle, bittersweet smile. 

*

Jon crept back to the house at lunchtime and found Ellen on the sofa reading a book he thought she’d said her class wasn’t starting until next week. A cup of tea sat cold by her feet on the coffee table. She turned when he came through into the living room.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with deep skepticism.

“Forgot my lunch,” he explained, pointing back towards the kitchen. 

Ellen dropped her book to her lap and squinted at him. “Did you? Or did you just come to check up on me?”

“I--No, I--we left in a hurry this morning--”

“Dad,” she said with a knowing smile. 

“I’m so close by. I thought it couldn’t hurt if I--” He gave up and let his shoulders sag. “Look, don’t tell Dad. I might have left my lunch behind on purpose.” 

Ellen burst out with a laugh. “You could have just come home anyway but you gave yourself a whole set-up?”

“This is why you can’t tell Dad. I know it was absurd.” 

“We’ll see,” she said with a devilish shrug. 

“Well, how have you been feeling?” 

“Honestly, a lot better,” she said. “I went back to sleep for a bit and when I woke up, that feeling in my chest was gone. It was like once I didn’t have anything to worry about today, my body could just… relax.”

Jon nodded. “Yes, that’s often how it goes. Well, I’m glad to hear it.” 

“You could’ve just texted and asked,” Ellen said, and Jon shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. 

“Yes,” he said. “But I just--I wanted to see you with my own eyes. Make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “And I’m definitely going to tell Dad. You’re ridiculous and he should know.” 

Jon rolled his eyes fondly and beckoned her into the kitchen. “Come on, you little snitch. I’ll make us both something to eat before I have to head back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah shit ellen is so loved
> 
> This one feels like a tonal mess, I wrote most of it months ago and had a really hard time pulling an ending together this week so... idk bro lol


	14. as a moon may adore you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some moments from Ellen’s early years, and the small family surrounding her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think i'm running away with the domesticity thing

_one year, nine weeks_

Martin paused at the bottom of the stairs to take a deep breath with the baby monitor in hand. It was their fourth night with Ellen and so far, only the first night had been particularly difficult. Tonight had been a bit of an ordeal, though. It took them too long to realize that both of them being in the room only complicated matters, so Jon had slipped downstairs half an hour ago so as to stop distracting Ellen from dozing off. 

Jon shook his head incredulously as Martin stepped into the living room. He was stretched back against the couch cushions with his feet propped on the coffee table, pressing his fingers to his temples. 

“What have we done?” he asked. 

Martin huffed an exhausted laugh.

“I’m only partly joking,” Jon continued. “This is the rest of our lives now. We’re parents.”

“We’re parents,” Martin echoed. “Doing alright?” 

Jon let his hands drop to rest on his knees. “Yes, I think I’m fine, I’m just--the enormity of it is hitting me.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, sinking into the couch beside him. He set the monitor down on the coffee table where they could both see the image of Ellen sleeping peacefully. 

“I just want to do right by her,” Jon muttered. 

“Yeah, me too,” Martin said. “I thought you were the one who was just convincing me a few days ago that we don’t have to be perfect.”

“Yes,” he said, with a sheepish smile. “I--I just got in my head. Thinking about… the responsibility of it, how much we have to figure out to make sure she’s okay, and--and happy, and…” He trailed off with a sigh. 

Martin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s a lot.” 

“And it’s just us,” he said. “We don’t have any, you know… She has no grandparents, no aunts, no uncles… There’s no one to give us unsolicited, outdated advice and tell us what we’re doing wrong. I hate that all we have to give to her are our own dismal, lonely legacies.”

Martin considered this with a frown. “It’s funny, but I haven’t worried about that at all.”

Jon looked over at him. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, as if it was obvious. “We’re not alone, Jon.” 

He gave a small, relieved laugh. “It’s nice to hear you say that.”

“I mean it,” Martin said. “We’ve got our friends and they’ve got our backs. If that’s all we’ve got, we’re not too bad off.” 

Jon closed his eyes and hung his head, letting that sink in. “No, you’re right. You’re right.” 

Martin shrugged and laid his hand on Jon’s knee. “I don’t think all that stuff matters, you know? Family legacies and… blood relatives. I mean, not to be dismal, but do you really wish she had my mum as a grandmother?”

Jon’s eyes widened for a moment. “I suppose not.” He leaned into his side and Martin swung an arm around his shoulders. Jon sighed into the touch, resting his head against him. “Why have you always got the answers when I’m lost?”

“You know, you always seem to have the same for me,” Martin said. “I think we just trade off who’s got the wits at any given moment.” 

“Or the general mental stability,” Jon said, rubbing his cheek against Martin’s shoulder. “It’s nice that whatever powers that be usually only let one of us spiral at a time.” 

A small cry warbled from the monitor on the coffee table.

“Ah, that’s not good,” Martin said.

“I’ll go,” Jon offered, pushing himself up with a hand on Martin’s sturdy shoulder.

“Thanks, love,” he said. “Good luck.”

Martin listened as Jon’s footsteps faded into the monitor’s feed and his arms came into view, lifting Ellen out of her bed. He couldn’t help but put a hand to his chest and melt as the monitor picked up Jon’s sweet murmurs and Ellen’s disgruntled cries that grew more contented by the moment.

Jon worried about his personality lacking the warmth required to handle a small child, but Martin saw the way his brain turned to mush behind his eyes every time he held her on their visits before she came home with them, how he laughed right back every time her musical giggle filled the air, how he closed his eyes and breathed deep when he cradled her against his chest as she slept, as if swearing before god that he’d protect her at any cost. If he could only hear himself whispering soothing words and singing small snippets of lullabies, the soundtrack Martin was being treated to at the moment through the monitor. It wasn’t long before Ellen quieted entirely.

He watched Jon’s delicate arms lay her back in the crib. Before Jon pulled back, he leaned over the railing and whispered, “I love you.”

Martin smirked and shook his head. He wished Jon could have watched what he just did. He kicked himself for not taking a video so he could make Jon witness his own tenderness until he took it to heart that he wasn’t so much the prickly bastard he once was. At least not to their daughter, and he never would be. There was plenty they both worried about, sure. But Martin had no concerns about her ever feeling a lack of love. That was the one thing he knew they could supply in abundance. 

  
  


_One year, twelve weeks_

  
  


“Now, that’s a sight,” Daisy said. 

They arrived just in time to catch Jon laying on the floor on his back, lifting Ellen above him as they made faces at each other. 

“What is?” he asked, sitting up and propping Ellen on his knee. 

“You actually look like a dad, Jon,” Basira said.

Jon balked, gesturing to the small child in his lap. “I _am_ a dad.”

“Yeah, for about two weeks, now,” Daisy added. “You’ve never really exuded very fatherly energy, you know.”

“Grandfatherly, maybe, but this is the first time you’ve actually seemed like you could be a dad,” Basira said.

“This all feels very backhanded,” Jon said, letting Ellen go as she wriggled to freedom, stood herself up, and unsteadily made her way over to Martin as he came in behind Daisy and Basira. He laughed and bent to scoop her up. 

“That would be because it is, love.” Once in Martin’s arms, she eyed the new visitors with suspicion. “Well, this is Ellen,” he said. “Say hi!” Martin waved his hand to exemplify how. 

She didn’t bite and instead hid most of her face in Martin’s shoulder, keeping one eye on them. 

“She’s pretty shy,” he said. “It took her quite a few visits to warm up to us. She’s getting a bit braver, though.”

“She’s huge,” Basira said. 

“Do you think so?” Martin said.

Basira shrugged. “I mean, I knew she wasn’t a newborn, but she’s so much bigger than I thought.”

Martin laughed and nodded in understanding. “Ah, you just think she’s generally big, not for her age. I was going to say, we’ve been told she’s rather small.” 

“She’s bigger than Jade,” Basira said.

“She’s three months older than Jade,” Jon said, finally heaving himself up off the floor to sit on the sofa. 

Basira rolled her eyes. “I know, I just mean--it’s just a surprise, okay?”

Georgie and Melanie’s daughter Jade was about to celebrate her first birthday next month and they were planning to bring her to London to meet Ellen for the first time as well. Ever since they moved to Brighton a few years ago, they’d made regular visits back but those had dwindled a bit since having a baby. They brought Jade to London for the first time when she was three months old, and that visit really forced Basira to lay her apparent baby-phobia on the table. Jade was more vocal and outgoing than Ellen, though. Jon hoped that perhaps, their daughter would be a bit more Basira’s speed. 

“Will she let me hold her?” Daisy asked.

“Probably, if you’re gentle,” Martin said

“Gentle is my middle name,” she said in her ever-indecipherable tone.

Daisy sat on the sofa beside Jon and Basira hung back, standing over the back of the sofa to observe. Martin came over and gently transferred Ellen into her arms and Daisy took her with an unwieldy delicacy. She sat Ellen on her lap and curled her arms around her.

“Hello, little one,” Daisy muttered. Ellen looked rather concerned, turning her head until she caught Jon’s eye as if to confirm this new face was to be trusted. 

“It’s alright,” he cooed. “This is Daisy.”

Ellen’s mouth formed into a thoughtful pout as she continued to survey this new person she’d been entrusted to.

“She’s kind of serious,” Daisy said. “I think she’s been spending too much time with you, Sims.” 

“She’s always been like that,” Jon insisted.

“That’s how we knew it was a good fit,” Martin added, and Jon rolled his eyes. 

Ellen craned around until she saw Basira over Daisy’s shoulder and gave her the same questioning look. 

“Do you want to meet Basira?” Daisy asked. 

She shifted uncomfortably. “I think I’m alright.”

“She’s not going to break, Basira,” Daisy said. She bounced her up and down a bit and her solemn little expression cracked into a smile. “She's sweet.”

“Do you want to hold her?” Jon asked Basira.

She put her hands up deferentially. “Really, I’m good.”

“It’s not that complicated,” Daisy said. “Stop overthinking it.”

Basira rolled her eyes and came around to sit beside Daisy. “Fine. Give her here.”

“Please, contain your excitement,” Jon deadpanned.

Daisy carefully shifted Ellen from her lap into Basira’s rigid arms. She sat Ellen on her leg as Daisy had done and stared out at the room of onlookers. 

“What now?” Basira said. 

Martin laughed. “You just hold her. Say hi.”

Basira turned her face to face. “Hi, Ellen,” she said, attempting to affect a friendlier tone. 

She stared up at Basira with wide, curious eyes, and made a quick executive decision that she’d actually prefer to be put down on the floor, reaching down and teetering dangerously off her lap. Martin scooped her up and deposited her at their feet so Basira didn’t have to make that maneuver. 

“She can sense your fear,” he stage-whispered. 

“I’m not _afraid_ of her,” Basira argued. 

“She can sense your disinterest, then,” Jon said, keeping an eye on her as she made for the edge of the coffee table to pull herself up to stand. Once upright, she turned to peer at the panel of adults she’d just been passed around, looking relieved to be free.

“She’s cute, I’ll give you that,” Basira said. “I just really can’t believe you’ve gone and got a baby.”

“Could you make it sound any more impersonal? ‘Gone and got a baby,’” Jon muttered. 

“Come on, Jon,” Basira said. “Is this really something you ever thought you’d be doing?” 

“I can honestly say there were much less normal things that were far higher on my list of expectations.” 

Ellen ambled toward the kitchen doorway where Martin stood and he blocked her passage until she turned back to the living room, unbothered. She took off for a few steps, lost her balance, and tumbled over only to pull herself back to her feet a moment later.

“God, don’t you worry that she’ll hurt herself if she just falls over like that?” Basira said.

Martin laughed. “Babies are heartier than they look, honestly.” 

She shook her head and sank back into the sofa, utterly baffled by the entire display.

“Come help me get dinner together if you want a break from the baby energy, then,” Martin said, waving her in to follow him. 

They left Jon and Daisy to look after Ellen, who soon toddled back in their direction and slapped her hands upon Jon’s knees with a squeal sounding somewhat like, “Da!”

“Ah, now you want to be held since the scary lady is gone?” he said, hoisting her up into his lap. 

Daisy laughed. “It’s nice that Basira’s the one that scares children.”

“You’d almost think she’s doing it on purpose,” Jon said. 

He pulled Ellen up so she was standing on his lap, bringing her face level with his, and she grinned showing off her very few teeth. She reached gleefully out towards his glasses, to which he said a soft, “No,” but she went for them anyway. She got a hold of one side of them even as he jerked his head away and he inadvertently gave her just the right leverage to pull them straight off. 

“Can I have them back?” he asked as she rattled them around. She held them out, not really knowing how to proceed, but he maneuvered his head to gently guide them back onto his ears. 

“Thank you,” he said, grinning like a madman at his sweet little girl.

Daisy laughed quietly and shook her head. 

“You’re really good with her, Jon,” she said in earnest. 

He nodded and positioned Ellen to sit in his lap. “Thank you, Daisy.”

“At least, you’re doing a great job pretending you know what you’re doing.”

“Thanks for that,” he said with a smile. “I genuinely haven’t felt this out of my depth in years.”

Daisy bumped his shoulder with hers. “At least this is over something good, yeah?”

“Definitely,” he said, scrubbing a hand over Ellen’s thick, dark hair and kissing her forehead.

“How’s Martin holding up?” Daisy asked.

“Well, he’s alright,” Jon said. “He’s terrified of messing up, so he’s sort of overcorrecting, fretting about doing the right thing at every turn. Which isn’t a really bad thing at the moment. Well, not for her.”

Ellen babbled something in the general direction of Jon’s face.

“That’s right,” he replied. “You’re very lucky, my dear. Your dad is the best you could have.”

“The other one, mind you,” Daisy butted in, head ducked toward Ellen conspiratorially. “This one’s hit or miss.”

“Weren’t you just saying something nice about me a moment ago?”

“Don’t want it going to your head,” she said, turning back to Ellen. “Keep him on his toes, will you?”

“I’m sure she will.”

Martin wandered back in and perched on the arm of the sofa. 

“So, based on Basira’s reaction, I’m guessing we shouldn’t rely on you for babysitting?” he said. 

Daisy laughed. “Not if you want her back in one piece.”

“Is that a threat?” Jon said mildly.

“If you dare ask us to babysit, it could be.”

Ellen reached over and swatted aimlessly at Daisy’s arm, making soft, friendly noises.

“Hey there,” she said, taking the little hand in her own. “I’m joking, by the way. I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“To what?” Basira asked, joining them from the kitchen. 

“Nothing,” Daisy said with a smirk. 

Martin turned to her. “Daisy’s just volunteered you to be our daughter’s legal guardians should we both perish.”

Basira’s expression went murderous. “That’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not,” Jon said, laced with sarcasm. “It’s a very grave matter and we’re lucky to have such loyal friends who would step up in such a terrible circumstance.” 

“I was just saying we’d be willing to babysit,” Daisy said. 

“Oh god,” Basira muttered. “As a last resort, maybe.”

“Oh, come on, Basira,” Daisy said with a pleading glare. “You need to stop being such a curmudgeon, you know that?”

She raised a hand in defense. “Look, I don’t know the first thing about kids this age and I think you’re absolute lunatics for trying to raise one. I just came to tell you your timer’s going off.” 

“Oh!” Martin said, jumping up and hurrying back to the kitchen. Basira followed him quickly in a clear attempt to escape further indictment. 

As soon as she left the room, Daisy looked at Jon with a mischievous nod. “We’ll babysit.” 

  
  


_four years, eight months_

  
  


Why they’d decided to leave after Martin got home from work on a Friday night just in time to hit the weekend exodus on the M25, Jon could no longer remember. All he could focus on was the gridlocked motorway ahead, shrouded by sheets of unseasonable rain, and the texture of the steering wheel gripped in both his hands.

At least Ellen had just fallen asleep. That was a double-edged sword that meant her unanswerable questions ceased for the time being, but she would probably pop back to life as soon as they arrived and be impossible to put to bed until far too late. The ungodly traffic meant they wouldn’t get to Brighton until close to 9, which was late enough as it was. 

Not to mention, due to the holdups from the weather and the traffic, this had officially become the longest car ride they’d ever taken Ellen on. Georgie and Melanie came back to London rather frequently, but this was the first time they’d traveled to Brighton with her. She was just as thrilled to see the mythical place itself as she was to see Jade, who she was utterly infatuated with. 

“Still good over there?” Martin asked from the passenger’s seat, taking a peek back at Ellen as well.

“Just fine,” Jon muttered. 

“Give me your hand.”

“What?” he asked, eyes still straining at the license plate in front of them that he’d accidentally committed to memory.

“It’s a standstill as far as we can see, you can spare a hand off the wheel. Give it here.”

He did so without questioning, and Martin took it in his and began to lightly massage it with his thumb. “You’ve had a deathgrip on that thing for the last hour.”

Jon actually took stock of the state of his body and the overwhelming tension became immediately apparent. He took a breath and relaxed his grip, rolling out his shoulders. 

“We’ll be there soon,” Martin assured him. “There was probably an accident up ahead with this weather. It’ll clear up.” 

“Yes,” he said, affording him a small smile. 

He’d always loved car rides with Martin ever since the very first one, though Martin had slept through most of that. Even then, his silent, steady presence had been a calming one, an utter relief to have beside him after so long without. When Martin had woken an hour out from their destination, he’d apologized profusely for being a terrible passenger and not keeping Jon company on such a long, dark, unfamiliar drive. Jon took his hand and did a poor job of explaining that just having him there was enough to keep him going. 

In later years, Martin proved himself to be the ultimate road trip partner, what with his unearthly sense for whether Jon was getting stressed or peckish or frustrated with the GPS. He always swooped in with the solution before Jon even realized what was bothering him. He had no idea how he did it. 

When they finally pulled onto their street and found a spot to park, Jon glanced back to find Ellen still asleep.

“What are the chances we can get her straight in bed?” he asked.

“No idea, but it doesn’t hurt to try,” Martin said hopefully, getting out to go around to Ellen’s door.

He pulled her out of her car seat with a laborious groan and nestled her gangly little form against his shoulder. She stirred and blinked around, taking in the dark residential street that to her, probably looked nearly identical to their own.

“Are we in Brighton?” she mumbled.

“Yes, we are,” Martin said. 

“Can I see Jade?” she asked.

“It’s rather late, darling,” Jon said, grabbing the rucksack of her things from the backseat. “She’s probably in bed.” 

Ellen took the information with a disappointed scowl but addressed it no further, as if perhaps she didn’t believe it until she saw for herself. 

They got inside and exchanged hugs and hellos, and Georgie went around Martin’s back to see Ellen’s face squished up against his shoulder. 

“I’m so excited you’re here,” she cooed. “Mel, you won’t believe how big she’s gotten.” 

Ellen blinked her bleary eyes and coyly turned her head in towards Martin’s neck, mumbling, “Where’s Jade?” 

Georgie grinned. “Oh, where’s Jade? She’s just gone to sleep. It’s pretty late, you know.” 

“You’ll see her in the morning,” Jon said, reaching over to gently scratch her head. 

Ellen had no response to this, looking sleepy as ever. 

Miraculously, they managed to change her into pajamas without rousing her too much and put her down on the little air mattress that was waiting for them in the guest room. She settled down quickly, somehow tuckered out from the travel she’d mostly slept through. 

Jon and Martin came back downstairs to join Georgie and Melanie in the living room.

“That was quite a drive,” Jon said, sinking back into the loveseat. Martin wedged in beside him and threw his arm back to massage Jon’s neck. 

“Was she cranky?” Melanie asked.

“No,” Martin said. “She just had a _lot_ of questions. She was chattering away until she fell asleep.” 

“It’s rather funny how she expects we know the answers to everything,” Jon said. “Sorry, darling, you’re a few years too late to have your dad know when that house on the corner was built off the top of his head.” 

Georgie laughed. “Is that really the kind of thing she asks?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Martin said. “She’s back there asking how many people live in Brighton and when it was founded and I can tell you, she didn’t get that from me.” 

“Oh god,” Melanie said. “I just got a flash of what it would be like if Jon raised a kid entirely on his own. Thank god for you, Martin.” 

Jon let out a put-upon sigh. “You’re lucky I’m so exhausted or I’d defend myself.”

“Yeah, most parents worry about their kids picking up swears, but not us,” Martin said. “The other day she said the word ‘rambunctious’.”

“And she used it correctly,” Jon added, tamping down his own pride a bit. 

“That doesn’t sound like a cause for worry,” Georgie said. 

Jon looked at the floor hesitantly. “Well... we’d rather her _not_ end up a pretentious prick…” 

“How are you going to avoid that with you as half the influence?” Melanie said.

“I think he’s more than half,” Martin muttered. 

“It’s not like I’m specifically teaching her big words,” Jon protested. “She’s just--she just hears them and…”

“Immediately knows how to use them. Right,” Martin said. 

“Come on, you knew that between the two of you, you were always going to raise one hell of a nerd,” Melanie said fondly.

“A _lovely_ nerd,” Georgie added. 

“Of course,” she said. 

“And of course, you two are raising a fearless, charming badass,” Martin said.

Melanie nodded resolutely. “Exactly right.”

“Yeah, Ellen probably is doomed to idolize Jade the rest of her life,” Jon said with a grimace.

“It’s honestly adorable,” Georgie said. 

“Yeah,” Martin said with a smile. “She tells people her best friend lives in Brighton.”

“Oh my god,” Georgie said, putting a hand to her chest. 

“Yes,” Jon said. “She says she has friends in London but her _best_ friend lives in Brighton. Jade outranks the kids she plays with every week in the neighborhood, mind you.” 

They laughed and fell into a quiet lull, and Jon felt the pang of affection he always felt when they all got together like this. 

“She really loves seeing you,” Jon said. 

“You mean Jade,” Melanie said. “I don’t think she gives a shit about us.”

“Oh, she does,” Martin protested. 

“I’m not really sure she knows who we are outside of the context of ‘The People Who Bring Jade To See Me’.” 

Martin cocked his head to the side with regret. “Well, you might be right.” 

“Have you ever…” Jon began tentatively. “Do you ever consider moving back?”

“We’ve talked about it here and there,” Georgie said. “I just think if it wasn’t for Mel’s job…” 

Melanie shrugged. “It’s a really good gig for me,” she said apologetically. “I’d need a good reason to give it up.”

“I understand. We just miss you,” Jon said quietly. 

“And,” Martin added, “Ellen misses Jade.” 

Melanie laughed. “Most importantly, Ellen misses Jade.” 

They soon made their excuses to go get a decent night of sleep, as Ellen would surely be up at the crack of dawn. As soon as they settled into bed, Martin huddled close until they were nose to nose so they could talk without waking her. 

“I think Georgie is pregnant,” he whispered.

Jon gawked at him. “What? Why?”

“I just do,” he said. 

“What do you mean?” Jon asked. “Did she say something?”

“No, I just got a sense.” 

“You got a sense,” he said skeptically. 

“I did. Just you wait.” 

Jon raised an eyebrow and Martin gave a cocky shrug. He reached over and brushed some hair off Jon’s forehead.

“Why’d you ask about them moving back?” he asked.

Jon sighed. “I just… Whenever we see them, I always think about how nice it would be if they were closer by. For us and for Ellen.”

“They’re never far,” Martin said. “Honestly, we see them a lot for living in different cities.” 

“I know,” Jon said. “It’s just somehow never enough.” 

“Well, I doubt they’d be making a move any time soon if another baby is on the way,” Martin said, as if it was already fact. 

Jon huffed a laugh. “Well, no, not in this hypothetical reality you’re subscribed to.”

“I’m right. I guarantee it. They’re going to tell us this weekend. Do you want to bet on it?”

“No,” Jon said. 

“Because I’m right,” he said with a sleepy grin. 

Martin, as they learned the next day, was in fact right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> domestic bastards. all of them. except Basira she is a conduit for my small children anxiety
> 
> I met a 1 year old baby a few months ago and i based everything off of very vague memories of that  
> I do not know how children work and especially not certain-aged babies. How much do 1 year old babies walk?? Do they get to vote??? idk  
> catch me googling “how many teeth do 1 year old babies have” and “four year old children” on incognito bc I didn’t want it in my search history


	15. hard feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the brink of many changes, a painful shock comes Ellen's way. Jon manages to talk through it with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: breakups
> 
> dad talks dad talks

Ellen came home far earlier than expected for a late summer afternoon. Since finishing school in the spring, she’d been rather living it up for her last summer before university. Most days, especially on the weekends, she wouldn’t even come home after her shift at the cafe. She would meet her girlfriend and their friends and they’d either end up gallivanting somewhere in Central London or spending long nights at someone’s house closer to their own neighborhood, soaking up their time together before some of them went off to different cities for university. 

Ellen’s girlfriend Kira was one of the ones heading far away, as she was about to start her first year at the University of Edinburgh. Ellen was not looking forward to that so much since she was staying nearby to start her degree at UCL. 

Jon glanced at Martin when they heard the door close on a Saturday afternoon in early August. Ellen must have come right home after work. The two of them had been working in their attic-turned-study, Jon on lesson plans for the coming year and Martin on a small writing project. Martin returned his questioning glance as they heard Ellen pass her bedroom in favor of the door to the attic stairs to make her way up. 

“Hey, El,” Martin said, sounding as surprised as Jon was. “We didn’t expect you home for dinner. Everything alright?”

“Um,” she said, around a lump in her throat. “Kira and I ended things today.” 

Jon froze, like he did whenever a situation tipped into an emotional territory out of his depth. He deferred to Martin by default by keeping his stunned silence. 

“Oh, love,” Martin said, exuding enough sympathy to count for both of them. “Do you want to come talk about it?”

She shook her head. “No, I--maybe later. Um. But… Yeah. We met at the cafe after I got off and took a walk and… had a talk and… Yeah.” 

Martin shook his head and his shoulders sagged. Jon realized his jaw had been hanging open slightly and he quickly closed it and tried to imbue his posture with more compassion. 

“God, I’m so sorry to hear that, my love,” Martin said. “How are you feeling about it?” 

Jon noticed her shift uncomfortably, staring at the floor. “It’s fine. It’s for the best.”

“Had you talked about it before today at all?” Martin asked. 

“Um… No, not really,” she said, running her hand back through her hair. “I guess… I guess I just--I don’t know. Can we talk about it later?”

Martin put up his hands in apology. “Of course, I didn’t mean to push. You go take it easy, love. We’ll be here.”

“Let us know if you need anything,” Jon offered, as inadequate as it felt.

Ellen nodded, muttered, “Thanks,” and she headed back for the stairs. 

“I had a feeling,” Martin said low. 

“You did?” Jon swung around in his chair, still dumbstruck, and Martin shrugged. 

“Kira had been round less, and when she was, she seemed different. I got the feeling she was planning on splitting before she went away to Edinburgh.” 

Jon shook his head. “I… suppose that makes sense. I just didn’t notice.”

“Yeah, well,” Martin said with a small smile. 

“She sort of seems as surprised as I was,” Jon said. 

Martin nodded knowingly. “Again, I think this all makes sense.”

Jon got his meaning and folded his arms. “Are you saying you think I taught her to be emotionally unobservant?” 

“My god, not at all!” Martin said. “She’s not emotionally unobservant, I think she just… I think she misses things that are more comfortable to miss. You know, she sort of subconsciously avoids stuff that’s gonna be hard to handle.” 

Jon drew in a long breath. “Alright, I see your point. But I don’t think I made an effort to _instill_ that in her.” 

Martin actually laughed. “I don’t think you did either, Jon. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s natural. It’s just learned, the same way she doesn’t like to let anyone else near the crossword before she’s had a good pass through on her own.”

Jon squinted at him. He was aware that he did that, but he’d never noticed Ellen doing the same. Clearly, Martin had. 

“I’m not sure it’s quite like that,” he grumbled. 

“I’m just saying, it’s one of the many ways she’s like you. And it’s not a--well.” Martin hesitated. “I was going to say it’s not a bad thing. It’s not, but it could probably use some work.” 

“I suppose that much is true,” Jon said, scratching at his temple. 

Ellen came down for dinner seeming distant, only half-present. Martin tried to open the conversation again, but her answers were short and nonspecific, followed by pleas to just talk about it later, not yet, so he eased off. Martin always had a hard time giving space when all he wanted was to help. He ruthlessly sought answers to unknowns because it made him feel equipped, and Jon and Ellen were both the type to bristle at that. 

Jon, on the other hand, could give space to a fault. He knew this, that he had a habit of keeping his distance in the name of “space”. Perhaps that was a personal reluctance to dive into the deep end. 

Ellen went right back up to her room after dinner and they started on the dishes, quiet resting tentatively between them for a while. 

“I just hate that she goes and sits all alone,” Martin muttered eventually. “But I guess we’ve got to give her space if that’s what she wants.” 

“Yes,” Jon sighed. Their shared desire to fix this for their daughter hung tangible in the air like an invisible, noxious gas. 

As they finished cleaning up, Jon stood in the kitchen doorway and stared up the steps. 

“Do you think she’d talk to me if I went up there by myself?” he asked, turning to glance at Martin drying his hands by the sink.

He cocked an eyebrow. “You could certainly try.” 

“I--I think I might.” 

“Good luck,” Martin said, coming over and giving him a small kiss. “I’ll be down here, yeah?”

Jon made his way upstairs and hesitated outside of her door. Only silence came from within but her light was still on. He knocked.

“Yeah?” 

“Just me,” he called. “Can I come in?” 

“Sure,” she mumbled. 

He cracked the door open to see her curled up against her headboard, removing her earbuds as he entered. He made his way over and sat on the edge of her bed. 

“What are you listening to?” 

She shrugged. “Just music.” 

Jon nodded, imagining she’d probably already curated a breakup playlist for peak wallowing. That’s what Martin would have done. Had done, if his stories of past relationships were to be believed. 

She stared down at the earbuds in her hands, twisting them around in her fingers. 

“I just wanted to check on you,” he said gently. 

“I’m fine,” she said. 

“You don’t have to be.”

“I know, but I am,” she insisted. 

He nodded. They sat quietly for a moment as he tried to decide the right thing to say. Ellen saved him the trouble by bursting out with her own continuation. 

“It’s fine. It makes sense, with her going so far away. It was probably inevitable, I’m just…” Tears filled her eyes and she wiped them away with a shaking hand. “I’m just going to miss her so much. I was already going to miss her because she’s going away but now it won’t even be the same. She won’t be my girlfriend, just… just someone else. And we said we’d still be friends but it won’t be--she’s going to meet new people and--”

“So will you,” Jon said.

She sighed miserably. “I know, but… she’s my best friend and that’s all going to be different now. I thought I’d at least still have that.” 

He nodded in sympathy, at a loss for the right words.

“And I’m going to have to start all over in uni and I don’t even know if I know how to make friends. I feel like I’ve always just _happened_ to be friends with people who have a lot of friends so I just get to slot in there with them, so how am I going to go somewhere completely new and--” 

Jon hushed her with a comforting hand on her leg. 

“Hold on, there,” he said, taking a moment to collect his response. “When something happens that takes you by surprise, and it hurts, it’s very easy to feel like everything is a disaster, but it’s--it’s not. Maybe this one thing is. It’s fresh and very painful and it hasn’t sunk in, but this--this breakup doesn’t have anything to do with your ability to make friends. Right?”

She crossed her arms and leaned back against her headboard, avoiding his gaze. “I--I guess. Probably.” 

“I’m sorry, I know you’re not looking for a lecture right now,” he said. “I just don’t want you to get it in your head that Kira’s decision has anything to do with who you are as a person.” 

She huffed a sigh. “Okay, but don’t you think if I--if she thought I was--I don’t know, if I was easier to get along with or--or not so anxious, if I was more laid back, then she’d--it would be easier to stay together--” 

“No,” he said, matter of fact. “I don’t think that.” 

Jon could see her fighting the urge to contradict him with every bone in her body. There was so much going on behind her eyes that he wished he could soothe with a wave of his hand. 

“I just don’t understand,” she said. “We _were_ best friends and--we loved each other, so how could she just run off and forget about that after so long?”

“Oh, darling,” he sighed. 

There were very few circumstances in which Jon wished for a vestige of his old power back. What he wouldn’t give to simply implant in her head whatever it was he’d come to understand about life and love, or the sheer incomprehensibility of human relationships. That sounded much easier than explaining it in words, and she wouldn’t have to go through the agony of learning those lessons on her own. 

“That’s a really complicated question,” he said, uselessly.

She let out a sharp, frustrated groan. “Why can’t anything just be _simple_ for once? I feel like _everything_ is so complicated and it’s just constant unanswerable questions and--why can’t I just--like, you and Dad. You’ve been together forever and you just--you just _are_. You just found the person you’re supposed to be with and you get to be with your person for the rest of your life and that’s that.” 

Jon tilted his head. “Now, this is the opposite of what you want to hear, but you know it wasn’t actually that simple.”

Her shoulders slumped and she rolled her eyes. “Yeah. I know.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, staring at different points that were decidedly not each other. She suddenly spoke again, a miserable mutter. 

“I just want what you and Dad have and I’m afraid I’ll never get it.” 

Jon snapped his head up at this. She kept staring down at her own hands, and he noticed there were tears running down her cheeks. 

“My dear,” he said. “Do you know how old I was when I met him?”

She didn’t answer, starting to sniffle. 

“I was ten years older than you are right now. And you know the story of how long it took for me to come to my senses. It took me years to realize. Think about how long ten years is. How old were you ten years ago?”

She huffed again, skeptical to engage in the exercise. “I was eight, but that’s not the same as--”

“But it’s a long time, yes?”

“Sure.”

“Before…” Jon began, pausing with a brief sigh. “Before I knew your dad loved me, I had entirely come to terms with the fact that I was not the kind of person who… could be loved like that, that it simply wasn’t something that would ever happen for me. But I was wrong, and so are you, because you have so much time and so much life ahead of you. You cannot know what the next ten years, the next _two_ years will bring, and you certainly can’t decide now what they _won’t_ bring.”

She nodded, still reluctant and tearful. “I know.”

“I’m…” He chuckled. “I’m flattered that you see our relationship as something to admire. Quite honestly, I’d advise against seeing _me_ as a role model when it comes to love. And I’m sure Dad would tell you the same.”

She cocked her head, disbelieving. “I bet he wouldn’t.”

“Well,” he said. “Maybe not out loud. We can ask him, if you’d like. Might give you a well-needed laugh.”

She snickered a bit at this, and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. He continued on.

“The truth is, loving Dad is something I was once very afraid of because I thought it would be hard. Not--not hard to love him, but hard to live with something that precious, that would be so devastating if lost.”

She finally looked up at him directly, biting her lip as she listened. 

“Of course, back then, there were a lot of threats to that,” he said, with a shake of his head. “But I was most afraid of myself, of my own failings being the reason that love might ever break, and I… I wish I hadn’t been so scared for so long. So I’ll give you the same advice I’d give myself back then, though I don’t think you quite need it in the same way.”

Jon held out his hand and Ellen reluctantly placed hers in it. He squeezed tight and pulled it towards him, prompting her to look him in the eyes. 

“Don’t let fear stand guard to your heart. It makes for a terrible watchdog.”

Her face crumpled and she let out a sob, and Jon pulled her into a tight hug.

“I love you so very much,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You are so loved by many, not just us. I know that for a fact. And as scary as it is to risk your own heart on new people, and… new love, it’s the only way. I wish it was easier than that.” 

For a few moments, she wept in his arms. Jon held on and smoothed her hair, eventually leaning to her bedside table to grab her a tissue. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I seem to have given a lecture anyway and I’m not sure it was all quite relevant.”

She shook her head. “It’s okay. It was a good one.” 

“You know, I think Dad’s looking for a film to watch, if you’d like to watch with us,” he offered as she wiped her nose.

Ellen nodded sheepishly and followed him off her bed and downstairs. Martin was in fact settled on the sofa, scrolling through a streaming service. He turned to see them coming down the stairs together. 

“There’s my girl,” he said, his smile spreading at the sight of her. “Come on, have a sit.” 

She sank into the other end of the sofa, knees pulled up to her chest. Jon dropped into the spot between them and threw an arm around Martin’s shoulders. 

“Darling,” Jon asked, putting on a cartoonishly academic tone. “How would you go about evaluating my efforts in pursuing our relationship before we got together?” 

“Hmm,” Martin said, dryly. “How would I evaluate… _Before_ we got together? Well, I’d say, non-existent? Or perhaps combative and openly antagonistic? Yeah, it usually fell somewhere between non-existent and openly antagonistic.” 

Ellen laughed, a relieving, joyful sound. Jon bristled only a bit at the answer, despite having invited the criticism himself. 

He tried to take it in stride, looking up at the ceiling pensively. “I had my methods.” 

“Sure you did.” Martin patted his knee. “You know, I do have to acknowledge your several large, life-risking gestures toward the end there. Got them in right under the wire after I pined over you for years.”

“And would you recommend such courses of action to someone looking for love?” 

“Can’t say I would,” Martin said. 

It was correct, and exactly what Jon expected, but still. “Well, clearly it worked for me.” 

Martin's face contorted in disbelief. “I wouldn’t say it _worked_ as much as it didn’t fail against all odds due to extremely uncommon and dire circumstances?”

“While that might be true, I’d like to point out again all those life-risking gestures?” he argued. 

“Jon, you asked," Martin laughed. “You can’t go getting mad about my answer. I said what I said. I _don’t_ recommend what you did as healthy behavior.” 

Ellen nearly dissolved into a puddle of giggles and Jon would do anything to keep her laughing, to keep that sound sweetening the air. 

“Well, the joke’s on you,” he said, as if he’d won the conversation. “You’re actually proving my point fantastically. I told Ellen that you wouldn’t recommend me as a romantic role model and she thought otherwise.” 

“Then why are you arguing if you agree with me?” Martin cried.

“I--I wasn’t prepared for you to start giving details…” 

“Well, don’t get me wrong. Once we actually got together, you were lovely. Uh, apocalypse notwithstanding and all that, but… yeah, your prior behavior did leave something to be desired. D+.” 

“A D+?” Jon said. “Not a total failure by any means.” 

“No, you demonstrated a willingness to improve.”

Jon splayed out his hands as if emphasizing an obvious point. “By jumping into a cosmic fear dimension to save you? Doesn’t that count for more?”

“Now you’re bargaining for a raised grade?” Martin said, incredulous. “I already gave you a plus. If your students could hear you now...” 

“I just think perhaps my grand, self-sacrificial gestures are being downplayed a bit.” 

Martin turned to Ellen to disregard his husband completely. “You wanna hear something this man did in an attempt at showing he cared about me?”

“Of course,” she said, her smile returned to its full capacity after being missing so much of the evening. 

“As I understand it, this was essentially his version of a pick up line. Let me know if this would do it for you. He comes to me, after we’ve barely spoken for a year--”

“Not my choice _or_ intention--”

Martin waved him off. “He comes to me and says, ‘Hey, let’s gauge our eyes out and run away together!’”

“Dad!” Ellen shrieked. 

Martin turned his gaze back to him. “Is this one of the grand gestures you’re referring to?” 

“That’s not _all_ I said,” Jon argued. “And I didn’t say it like _that._ And yes, I thought that was one of my more direct attempts.”

Martin’s eyes went wild. “Direct att--” he wheezed. “It’s not like you said, ‘Hello, Martin, I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I actually love you and that’s why I’m only just now making an effort to connect with you. Now let’s get out of here before we start the apocalypse.’” 

Jon threw his hands up in defense. “We were literally _trapped_ and the only way we could have left was if--forgive me for thinking that might send the right message.” 

Martin chuckled and leaned back into the sofa. “I suppose it did. Just reckon you might have gotten farther with an actual love confession, is all.”

“We got there eventually,” Jon said, crossing his arms.

“We did,” Martin conceded with great effort. He reached his hand around Jon’s head to pull him close and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Shall we pick a film? Anything you’ve been wanting to see, El?” 

She shrugged and shook her head. Jon watched her wrap her arms around herself and settle deeper into the couch, and he got a glimpse of the slight curve of her lips hidden in the collar of her sweatshirt. Her eyes caught his for a moment and he gave her a soft, loving smile back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ellen can always find comfort in the fact that her life isn’t anything like her dads’ literal hellscape of a love story


	16. a life in your shape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin frets about the wear of time on his appearance. Jon does not.

“God, I look old,” Martin said, staring plaintively in the mirror that hung above their dresser. Jon had just walked in from brushing his teeth and came up beside him to look as well. Martin smoothed over faint wrinkles around his eyes that had appeared in recent years, shallow grooves that outlined his features much like Jon’s own.

“I’ve looked old as long as you’ve known me,” Jon said.

“You have not,” he countered. “Sure, you had some grey hair, but no one was buying your act.”

“Well, regardless, I had a lot more grey hair by the time all that was over.” 

Martin slid his hand to frame his own jaw, contemplative. 

“At least I had the whole youthful, round face thing going for me back then. These crow’s feet are not doing me any favors.” 

Jon frowned at Martin’s reflection. “I think they’re cute.” 

“On me?” he said incredulously, and Jon rolled his eyes.

“No, I was talking about my own. Obviously, on you.” 

Martin gave a small groan, reluctant to comment again as Jon made it clear he was in a mood to shower him with compliments. 

“You know the old and ragged look has always just made you look more dignified,” he said. “I just look like I’m… sagging.” 

Jon furrowed his brow. “I didn’t know it was bothering you this much.”

“It’s not really,” Martin said unconvincingly. 

Jon slid his arms around him and leaned into his side, pressing kisses into his shoulder through the fabric of his t-shirt. Somehow, Martin’s t-shirts smelled more like him than anything else, which is why Jon secretly wore them to bed whenever Martin was away at a conference. Well, it had been a secret until their astute and unyielding daughter was old enough to notice and displayed no mercy when it came to snitching on one of them to the other. 

“Do you feel like you look your age?” Martin asked, eliciting a scoff from Jon.

“I feel like I look well over my age,” he said. 

He curled his hands up and over Jon’s arm where it crossed his chest. “Don’t you feel like the Archives aged you a lot, but you kind of leveled out after that?”

Jon’s gaze flickered to his own image in the mirror. “Are you saying you think I look the same as I did twenty years ago?”

Martin bobbed his head side to side, uncertain. “I mean… No, but sort of, yeah.” 

“That’s just not true,” Jon said, gesturing to his clearly aged face in the mirror beside Martin’s. 

“Okay, well…” he muttered. “Maybe it’s just that in my eyes you still look like the same dashing prick I’ve always known.”

“Have you considered that I might feel the same about you?” 

He scoffed. “It’s kind of hard to ignore that I’m missing half the hair I had back then.”

“Not half.” 

“A bit of it, anyway. Look, I’m not--I’m not fishing for contradiction here, I was just noticing how much older I look. That’s all.” 

“I know,” Jon said, running his hand up his back. “And I’m just telling you that there’s never been a day I thought you looked any less lovely than the moment I fell in love with you.”

“And what moment was that, exactly?” he said, eyeing Jon skeptically. 

“No idea, but chances are, you were looking lovely.” 

“You stupid sod,” Martin muttered.

Jon cradled the back of his neck with his hand, wishing his touch could communicate precisely what he saw.

“Trust me, Martin, I understand how difficult it is to watch yourself change before your eyes, but… But you must know how beautiful you are. To me, if you won’t accept it as categorical fact.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Martin said, with a grin peeking through. 

Jon pulled at his arm to get him to turn away from the mirror and look at him instead. He took Martin’s face in his hands and ran his thumbs over the same lines he’d just been fretting over, tracing them with his eyes as well. He knew Martin’s face better than his own, knew the paths time had eroded there like a river through earth. He supposed there were noticeable changes, lines set deeper than they once were, darker shadows under his eyes, and a slight droop to his full cheeks, but Jon felt a swell of pride realizing he’d watched those changes appear so gradually that they never even registered as change. Martin leaned his cheek into Jon’s roaming hand with his mouth curved upward and Jon regarded him with a contented hum. 

“Then again, perhaps I’m biased. You and beauty have become quite synonymous to me, you know.”

“Jon, stop,” Martin murmured. 

“No,” he said, his hands slithering down to Martin’s waist and pulling him closer. “If it helps, it’s actually quite a gift that I get to watch you grow older with me.” 

Martin gave a soft eye roll. “Alright, for real. Give it a rest.”

“Am I embarrassing you?” he said with a devilish grin. 

“Yeah, in front of this weird old man staring at us,” he said, gesturing to his reflection. 

“He should stop staring. That’s rude.”

“You’re one to talk.” 

Jon pulled him down to kiss him slowly, one hand caressing the curve of his cheek and the other bracing against the back of his neck. Martin met him with as much tenderness, opening his mouth to Jon’s and drawing him closer by his hands on his hips. When he pulled away, Jon pressed their foreheads together, his eyes still closed.

“You are the most beautiful human I’ve ever known,” he whispered.

“You say that as if--” 

Jon quickly slapped a hand on Martin’s chest. “I did not mean to imply there was a nonhuman more beautiful,” he said, rushing to kill whatever god awful quip was brewing. 

“I knew that--”

“If you dare say a single name right now, I’m leaving the room.” 

Martin snapped his mouth shut, cocking his head in a pleading manner, begging to be allowed to say his joke.

“Stop,” Jon said. 

“I knew Oliver Banks was super hot.” 

Jon let his head fall into Martin’s chest with an extraordinary groan. “I take it all back. I’ve just decided I hate you.”

“Well, we had a good run,” he said, masking his smugness with a feigned sigh.

Jon picked up his head and shot a venomous look. “Was it worth it? Throwing away fifteen years of marriage for that?”

Martin tilted his head, considering. “It was pretty good, yeah.” 

“Shut up,” he growled, and pulled him back down to kiss him again. Suddenly, Martin’s arms tightened around his middle as he bent at the knees and lifted Jon's feet off the ground, leaving him no choice but to wrap his legs around him.

“Cheeky,” Jon muttered, kissing at the corner of his mouth and then his lips properly again. 

“I’ll really be in trouble the day I’m too old to pick you up,” Martin said.

“I would argue that day’s already here.” 

Martin scoffed. “Am I not holding you right now?” 

“But the likelihood of throwing your back out is a lot higher than it once was, I believe.” 

Jon felt Martin falter, his arm quickly adjusting his grip around his back. “Alright, you might have a point.” 

“Put me down before you drop me,” Jon said, no real concern present in his voice.

“Watch,” Martin said, beginning to walk. “I’m at least still capable of carrying you to bed.” 

Jon laughed all the way until Martin deposited him on his side of the bed, leaning over him to kiss him soundly as he went down. Jon continued to cling to his neck, pulling him closer and Martin got the hint, climbing over Jon and into the bed on top of him. Jon rolled them onto their sides, kissing him wherever he could manage as they moved and diving in fully again once Martin’s head was on his own pillow. Jon kissed him like he did when they were much younger, like there was a danger it could be their last, grasping Martin’s face with both hands and keeping their lips locked together, inhaling deeply the clean, warm scent of him. Eventually, they separated to catch their breath. 

“We’ve still got a bit of kick left in us yet,” Martin said, and Jon chuckled, twisting their hands together between them. Martin stretched over to turn off the light on his bedside table and then they nestled into the familiar quiet, holding each other’s gaze in the darkness.

“I’ll love you until we’re both dead,” Jon whispered, rubbing his thumb over Martin’s knuckles. “No matter what you look like.” 

“And I will too,” he replied, though his tone tipped towards mocking. “Since there’s nothing we can do to stop the wear and tear of time on our old flesh sacks.” 

Jon made a disgusted noise. “I keep trying to have a nice moment, but you’re really hellbent on ruining it tonight.”

“Do you not want to come cuddle my old flesh sack?” 

Jon threw Martin’s hand back at him in protest. “That actually just made me want to sleep on the couch.”

“What?” he said, reaching back out for Jon’s hands with evil in his grin. “We both know we’re all just bags of bones and--”

He swatted him away, knowing a smile was still playing at his own lips. “I swear to god, Martin. Stop it.” 

“Alright, I’m done, I promise. Come here.” 

He let Martin grab his hand again and pull him close, giving up any pretense of irritation and burrowing his face into his chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been putting out a lot of kid stuff lately and wanted to write a moment of just the two of them. Ellen is on the other side of the wall in her bedroom blissfully ignorant of her dads being so dumb and gross
> 
> am i touch starved and craving deep emotional intimacy my life is severely lacking? interesting question why do you ask


	17. slipping through my fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Ellen struggle with a transition into a new chapter. Martin tries to keep it all together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes i really wonder what happens in my brain that allows me to reduce a tragic horror story to “aw look they have the most normal domestic problems ever and their lives are extremely charmed”

Martin hadn’t expected this all to go well, but he hadn’t predicted the particular level of small-scale disaster moving Ellen into university managed to reach. He thought at the very least, it had to be fun and exciting, arranging her new room and seeing her take off into this new era of her life, where she was sure to meet new people and face so many opportunities. How hard could it be, he thought, to borrow Daisy’s van, pack it up with all of Ellen’s bags and boxes, and simply arrive at her UCL accommodations to unpack it into her dorm room? He reckoned they’d be done with the bulk of it before lunchtime, and they could see her off with a nice lunch at a cafe before they went home. 

Every time Martin asked Ellen how packing was coming, she’d said, “Fine,” and he didn’t like to nag if he could help it. By the night before her move, he knew she’d barely begun and was planning to stay up far too late until she was packed. She’d had a tough go of it the last month, what with this massive transition looming closer and closer and the end of her first serious two-year relationship becoming an unforeseen edge of it. Martin knew she was excited, but sometimes, she had a tendency to let her anxieties color her perspective rather than the positives. 

And then there was Jon. He’d been perfectly thrilled for Ellen up until the very last week or so, when he’d started to get more and more dismal by the day. Martin would ask and he’d shrug it off, sounding not unlike their daughter when asked about her packing progress. He sequestered himself for most hours of the day to their attic office, claiming he’d gotten behind on lesson plans for the school year. On the night before her first day, he’d even gone up after dinner with muttered excuses about needing to finish something up. 

Martin got into bed first and opened a book to keep himself awake until Jon made his way back downstairs. Hiding behind his book, he kept half an eye on Jon as he miserably crawled under the covers. He turned off the lamp on his side and collapsed with a huff onto his pillow, facing away from Martin. 

“Jon, what’s wrong?” he said. It came out more irritated than he meant. 

Jon didn’t move, but answered in a drawn out, lamenting tone. “Do you really need to ask?” 

“I just mean I think we should talk about it.”

“I’d argue we’ve talked about it a lot.”

“But it’s obviously still really bothering you.”

At this, Jon turned onto his back to stare at the ceiling, still not at Martin. “Well, there’s nothing to be done, is there? What exactly would talking about it more accomplish? Our lives are about to be fundamentally changed, and all we can do is sit by and watch while the sick cycles of life take our daughter out of our hands and into the world for good.”

Martin sighed and tried to resist rolling his eyes too visibly. “That’s just no way to look at it and you know that.”

“Well, I’m glad you were able to rationalize it all so quickly,” Jon snapped. “How well-adjusted and sensible you are.” 

“Whoa,” he said, clapping his book shut. “Jon, you can’t blame me for how you’re feeling just because I’m dealing differently.” 

He looked away fiercely, which Martin interpreted as an acknowledgement of his own actions. “Sorry,” he muttered. 

“Look, we’re going to be knackered tomorrow, so just try to get some sleep, yeah?” 

“Of course.” 

Martin leaned over and kissed the side of his head. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Jon mumbled.

Martin flicked off his light and laid on his back, briefly considering how Jon had turned away from him again, presumably to wallow himself to sleep in private. Maybe to avoid one last question about his feelings before there was just no time for any of that in the morning. 

His mind wandered to their daughter on the other side of the wall, sleeping in her childhood room for the last time before she was officially a university student, no longer a permanent resident of their home. Hopefully she was sleeping, anyway. He reckoned she was probably still stuffing clothes and books into whatever vessels she could fit them in. He settled down facing Jon, just in case he turned over in the night and might wake to see Martin was there for him.

The morning was as fraught as Martin feared it would be. Jon and Ellen wore matching expressions of utter exhaustion before the day had even begun, and they were having none of Martin’s show of cheer as he attempted to swing the mood towards excitement and anticipation. Both thought they were hiding their trembling nerves beneath veneers of irritability, but Martin knew them better than that. He also knew better than to point it out.

Packing the car proved to be an absolute hassle. However they tried to shove things in, it always seemed like there was one item too many, one bag wedged in such a way that prevented the hatch from closing. They left an hour later than they intended and battled with Central London traffic to find a spot to park close enough to the building. It felt like they’d already lived a whole day by the time they got Ellen checked in and found her room.

Once they actually got to unpacking, Jon quickly became an absolute nightmare, nitpicking Ellen’s decisions on where to put things, moving them around of his own accord, making judgmental little comments about the other students moving in on her hall. Every time Jon opened his mouth, Martin then caught a glimpse of Ellen rolling her eyes to herself and huffing out a sigh. He could feel the pressure of Jon’s comments building like a kettle about to boil. Before long, it culminated in Ellen dropping a box carelessly on the desk and shouting, “Dad, would you honestly just _back off?_ You are making things _so_ much harder right now.”

Martin watched the impact of her words land on Jon like a slap. 

He straightened up, looked briefly at Martin, and then back at her. “I didn’t realize I was such an inconvenience.” He held a hand up as if to say something else, but shook his head instead and walked right out of the room. 

“Ellen,” Martin said firmly, regarding her with a punishing glare. 

She threw her hands up. “What? I can’t do anything with him micromanaging how I arrange my books, and, and--”

“El, I know he’s showing it in a rough way, but he’s having a very hard time with this, too.” 

“Well, it’s not about him, is it?” she snapped back. 

Martin sighed. “No, and he’ll recognize that once he cools down. But right now he’s--he’s just afraid of the change, just like you. And for him, it’s coming out in the form of trying to control whatever stupid little things he can.” 

“That’s not--”

Martin held up a hand. “I’m not saying that’s an okay way to deal with it. It’s not. I’m just explaining where he’s coming from.”

Ellen scowled at the wall. Martin let his shoulders sag and gestured to the door. “Look, we don’t have to unpack everything now. You can do some of it later on your own. Alright?”

“Fine.” 

Martin led them out into the hall to find Jon leaning his back against the wall right outside the door, arms folded up against his chest. 

“Ready for lunch?” he asked, his tone icy and clipped. 

Ellen walked past him and started off down the hall. Jon simply followed instead of risking a glance at Martin at all.

“Let’s go,” Martin said to no one, and took off after his family.

Thankfully, he already had a spot in mind, so once Martin was able to catch up to the two feuding brisk walkers, he got out in front of them to lead the way. He thought maybe if he trailed them both at the same pace behind him, someone would break and make an effort to apologize, but Jon and Ellen remained glacially quiet for the entire walk.

Martin waited until they’d ordered lunch and the dust began to settle to break the bitter standoff.

“Do you think it’s possible,” he began innocently. “That tensions are running so high because emotions are as well?”

Ellen turned her head in the direction of the window and stared hard, while Jon met his eye with a heavy sigh. 

“I think you’re right,” Jon admitted, with just a note of reluctance. 

“It’s a big day,” Martin said. “And things were never going to go a hundred percent smoothly, but I think we all know that the reason we’re so at each other’s throats isn’t that simple.”

“Whatever,” Ellen said. “It’s fine.” 

“No, no, it’s not _fine,_ ” Martin said. “We are not ending the day like this, not with the two of you barely talking. That’s no way to leave things.”

Ellen bit down on her lip, swinging her head again to fix steadily on the foot traffic out the window. Jon heaved a sigh and angled his body toward her, giving her his full attention even as she continued to disregard them both. 

“Ellen,” he said, finally softening. “I see that I was being overbearing and I’m sorry. I--I trust you fully. It’s just hard to let go.”

She still didn’t turn to look at him, but Martin knew exactly why when she twisted her head even farther away. 

“El,” he said, reaching his hand across the table. 

“Ellen, look at me, please,” Jon said, and finally she did. Her eyes were lined with tears, her mouth contorted into a resistant frown as she tried to keep from bursting entirely. He grabbed for her shoulder gently. “It’s a big change, isn’t it?”

She nodded and simply broke down, dropping her head onto Jon’s shoulder and letting him wrap her up in his arms. 

Martin knew the way Jon’s sentimentality worked and could practically see the memories he was playing out in his mind. Holding her when she was so much smaller and brought to tears by a skinned knee or lost stuffed rabbit. The several months when the only way she’d sleep in her new toddler bed was if someone was cuddling her close until she drifted off. Ellen crying on his shoulder as he tried to rock her to sleep on her first night home. 

It occurred to Martin that maybe those memories were playing in his own mind and he was simply using Jon as a nostalgic scapegoat. He pushed that away for the moment. 

“I don’t want you to leave mad at me,” Ellen sobbed. “I don’t want you to think--don’t want you to--”

“I know,” Jon whispered. “I know, my dear. I’m not mad at you at all, just facing the change poorly. That’s not quite fair to you.”

“I’m sorry I yelled,” she said miserably, muffled by Jon’s shoulder. 

“It’s quite alright,” he said, smoothing her hair. He glanced over at Martin, who simply took the whole scene in with a withering smile, and Jon promptly turned his head the other way. Martin hid a small laugh behind his fist at his two emotional wrecks. 

After lunch, they walked her back to her building, having decided they’d get going and let her handle the rest. They stopped just outside of the entrance and Martin quickly gathered Ellen into a hug. 

“It’s going to be brilliant,” he said. “You’re going to be brilliant.”

“Thanks, Dad,” she said, sounding so small and unsure. He released her and held her at an arm’s length by her shoulders.

“We’re never far,” Martin said. “And you know where we live.” 

This made her smile, and she somehow managed to resist whatever comment was clearly on her tongue admonishing his humor. “Yeah, I do.” 

He stepped away and made room for Jon, who immediately moved in to hug her with an urgent severity. She gripped him much the same, and Martin heard him say, “I love you, darling,” muffled against her hair. 

They said their goodbyes and Martin took Jon’s hand and led him down the block so he didn’t stand and stare as she walked away. 

“Fancy a walk in Regents?” he asked, as the park was just a short distance from Ellen’s building. 

“That sounds nice,” Jon said through a sigh. 

They walked quietly hand in hand until they reached the nearest park entrance. As they strolled the tree-lined paths, Martin looked over at his husband and bumped his shoulder.

“Alright?” he asked. 

Jon didn’t answer for a few paces. “No,” he said simply.

“Yeah.” He swung his arm around Jon’s shoulders and pulled him close as they ambled up the path, nearing a patch of colorful gardens. Martin directed him to a bench near a fountain. They sat without another word. Jon stared ahead with a blank expression and eventually, he let out an agonized groan.

“Why is this so hard, Martin?” he said. “She’s just going to university and she’s not even left London. I just can’t stop feeling like we’ve just lost her.” 

“You know it’s not like that at all.” 

“I know. Intellectually, I know that, of course.”

Martin nodded. “I know.” Given the last few days, he was unsure if there was anything he could say that would actually offer any comfort to Jon. So he settled for honesty. “Today is hard,” he said gently. “It will be for a bit and then a new normal will settle in. Just as with anything, yeah?”

Jon sighed. “I know you’re right.” 

“I know you do.” 

Quiet again. Then, Jon looked up at him as if he’d just remembered something. “Are _you_ alright?”

He gave a small, amused chuckle and wrapped an arm around him. “I’m alright, love. Taking it a bit better than you, if I do say so.”

Jon groaned and dropped his head onto Martin’s shoulder. He pulled his arm tighter around Jon’s back and pressed his cheek to the top of his head. They spent a moment watching people passing by, children throwing coins in the fountains, dogs on leashes, couples hand in hand. Jon broke the silence with a soft, curious question.

“Should we have had another?” 

It took a moment, but Martin caught up to his meaning. “Another child?” he said. “Wh--Jon, are you joking?”

“No, I… Oh, nevermind. I’m being stupid.” 

“I mean, regardless, it’s a bit too late to wonder about that, but also… Jon, Ellen was an easy child and we were in over our heads most of the time. Adding another to the mix would have been really pushing our luck.” 

Jon huffed a humorless laugh. “You’re probably right. I just can’t help but think it wouldn’t be so hard if we weren’t going back to an empty house.”

“It’s not empty, Jon,” he said, his tone bordering on pitying. “It’s still full of her to the brim. And she’ll be around, more than you expect, probably. It’s not like she went to Edinburgh, or god forbid, America or something.” 

“God forbid,” he laughed. 

“We should be proud,” Martin said. “She’s a great kid.”

“I am pr--of course, I’m proud,” Jon said, a fierce whisper.

“We owe her our trust.”

“I know that, and I do trust her. Of course, I do.”

Martin looked at him with pleading eyes. “Then you should trust she’ll be fine and that she’s not about to abandon us entirely.” 

“Alright,” he breathed. “You’re right. I know. I’m--I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult.” 

Martin wrapped his arms around him again. “It’s okay, love. It’s hard.” 

Jon ran a hand over Martin’s arm. “Thank you for always being so steady,” he said. “I’ll never understand how you do it.” 

“Always, Jon,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Jon leaned over to kiss his temple, sighing and leaving his nose there for a moment. 

“Shall we go?” Martin offered.

“Yes,” Jon said, standing with a labored groan. He held his hand out to help Martin to his feet and heaved a melodramatic sigh. “Back to our empty nest, I suppose.” 

“Oh, come off it,” Martin said, and Jon smirked back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watched mamma mia recently and sprinted to my document to name this chapter 
> 
> I am so conflict averse and have major issues with who i was at ellen’s age here so writing this was like pulling teeth LOL


	18. wherever is your heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon stumbles through being on his own for a few days when Martin goes out of town.

“You know, this is actually the first time we’ll have spent a night apart since before the cabin,” Martin said, tossing a pair of rolled up socks in his suitcase with a curious look at Jon. He watched him pack from the head of the bed, cross legged with his laptop in front of him as if he was doing any sort of work.

Jon leaned back at this fact. “Are you sure?”

“Can you think of a time?”

Jon scoured his memories of the last few years and came up short. “My god, you’re right,” he muttered. He pressed a fist to his mouth, considering this information. “Are we codependent?” 

Martin laughed. “Maybe a little bit. But at least we’re aware of it.”

“Are we?” 

“I am,” he said, zipping the suitcase closed and moving it off the bed so he could crawl up beside Jon. “Not my fault if you’re not keeping track of our unhealthy coping mechanisms.”

Jon closed his laptop and set it aside, still searching his memory for something he missed. It couldn’t have been… That couldn’t be right. But no instance in which either or them would have been out of the house for a night came to mind. 

“Do you mean to tell me I haven’t slept alone in a bed in two years?” 

“Neither of us have traveled alone until now,” Martin said with a shrug. He was leaving in the morning for a conference in Manchester, where he’d spend two nights and return on Friday afternoon. Jon had been eyeing it on the calendar with suspicion, avoiding contemplating too hard what two and a half days without Martin would look like. Maybe if he just didn’t think about it, he'd almost be able to pretend it wasn’t happening even while Martin was gone.

When they fled to the safehouse, Jon just hadn't noticed that it marked the end of lonely nights for good. He’d spent every night for years before that in an empty flat or a deserted archive, save for Martin’s stint sleeping in the cot and his stay with Georgie. Their lives together began in such a hurry, catapulted into an impression of domesticity the first night they dropped into bed in Scotland, too exhausted to argue about sleeping arrangements. Every single night since then, save for the period of time when night no longer existed, Jon grew to expect and depend on the comfort of sleeping by Martin’s side, knowing he was there with him safe and sound, curled up in the peace of sleep. When residual terrors woke either of them in the night, the other was always there to provide a soft touch and loving words. 

If Jon held him a little tighter than usual while falling asleep that night, Martin had the mercy not to mention it. 

In the morning, Martin packed up the last of his essentials while Jon got ready to leave for the day. Usually, he left the house before Jon, but his train didn’t leave until midmorning so he got to walk Jon to the door and pull him close into his arms. 

“I just--I know you’ll be fine,” he said. “It just feels weird. I’m getting worried for no reason.” 

Jon pulled back and gave him a look. “Afraid I’ll burn the house down?” 

“Maybe,” Martin said, then tucking a lock of hair behind Jon’s ear. “Mostly just worried you’ll be lonely.”

“Yes, but I’ll survive.” 

“Have Daisy come over to keep you company or something?” Martin suggested.

“Alright,” Jon said. “That’s an idea.” 

“Or, you know, take the alone time if you need it. Just--just don’t sit around brooding.” 

Jon laughed at this. “What is there to brood about?” he said, lifting a hand to pull him into a brief kiss. “Martin, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” 

“I’ll do my best, but no promises.” 

“Well, I’ve got to get going,” Jon said, reluctant to pull his hands off of Martin’s shoulders. 

Martin bent his head and kissed him again, punctuated by a kiss on his forehead. He ran his hand over Jon’s hair and gave him a bittersweet look. “I’ll see you soon, love.” 

“Alright. And--and call me tonight?” Jon said, hearing immediately how pitiful he sounded. “When you can, of course. I--I know you’ll be busy.”

“I will, love. Talk to you tonight.” 

Jon’s day felt distinctly normal save for the vague sense of looming dread for going home to an empty house. His students were taking an exam so he had ample quiet time to ruminate, puzzling over how the last few years had changed him. He used to thrive on living alone in his own space, knowing he didn’t have to consider anyone else’s needs or quirks or boundaries in his flat or his office. It was baffling, really, just how dismal that sounded to him now.

Jon reheated some leftovers for dinner and tried to distract himself with essay marking, but found himself eyeing his phone every few minutes hoping to see a call flash up. Somehow, the anticipation amplified the emptiness of the living room that made Martin’s absence an undeniable fact. It wasn’t as if he and Martin spent every waking moment together at home, but even if Jon spent a solitary evening locked away in the study, he was always graced with the knowledge that his husband was there, and at any moment Jon could crawl out of his hole and solicit affection.

Finally, Martin’s name lit up his phone and he wasted no time grabbing it and answering.

He began with a laugh. “God, you picked up so fast you’d think you knew exactly when I was about to call.” 

“I just--happened to be holding my phone,” Jon said. 

Martin went on to tell him about his evening and the petty academic drama he’d gleefully witnessed and relished being unattached to. Jon simply listened to the sound of his voice, so small and altered through the phone but endlessly familiar and sweet. 

“How was your evening, then?” Martin asked. 

“Well, it’s… certainly quiet,” Jon said. “But I can’t say I’ll be seeking a return to the sad bachelor lifestyle any time soon.”

He heard Martin chuckle. 

“Don’t laugh at me. I accept that I’m being pathetic.”

“You know, some people do this all the time,” Martin said. “Long distance, and all that.” 

“I’ll just be glad we’re not them.” 

“Yeah, me too.” 

“This does make me wish we at least had a cat,” Jon said, glancing around the dim, empty living room.

“Or a child?” Martin offered impishly. 

“God no,” he breathed. 

Martin laughed at him again. “We could look into getting a cat, you know.”

“And your allergy would just disappear, would it?”

“It could,” Martin said. “It happens. People grow out of allergies all the time.” 

“Yes, let’s talk about that the next time we go to Georgie’s and you’re still sneezing twenty-four hours later.” 

“Yeah, yeah.”

When the conversation slipped into a lull, Jon realized how little he wanted it to end, how he wished it was at all sensible to simply carry his phone around with Martin on the other end until he went to bed.

“It’s a bit absurd how much I miss you already,” Jon said. 

Martin gave an approving hum. “How much would that be, exactly?”

Jon laughed. “How am I supposed to quantify that? What’s the unit of measure?” 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Make something up.”

“I’m not going to keep making a fool of myself for your entertainment.” 

“Well, for the record, I miss you too,” Martin said. 

“At least you’re sharing a room with Lena. I’m about to get into an empty bed.”

Martin clucked his tongue. “You’re not brooding, are you?”

“Me? Never,” Jon said with a smile. 

“Well, I do have a long day tomorrow,” Martin said with regret. “Best try to get some sleep.” 

Jon actively had to keep himself from letting out a wistful sigh. “Alright, darling. Sleep well. I love you.”

“Love you, Jon.” 

He set his phone down and looked around at the room again, as if searching for a cue for what to do next. He unleashed the massive sigh he’d repressed for Martin’s benefit and decided there was little else he felt like doing before sleeping. Might as well get on with it. 

When he turned the light off and got into bed, the silence grew eerily deafening, once again beating him over the head with the weight of Martin’s absence. Even if Jon went to bed long after him, he was still used to falling asleep to the sound of his steady breathing, or the small grunts he made in response to being slightly stirred by Jon’s presence. He turned over on his pillow to face the empty space and realized that more than anything, what it lacked was the warm scent of him, the lingering florals of his face wash and the peppermint chapstick he used before bed, those fragrant notes mixed in with his mellow essence that had come to signal safety and comfort. 

Jon got out of bed and hesitantly crept toward the dresser, as if there was anyone around to catch him in the act. He pulled from the drawer one of the old t-shirts Martin wore to bed and brought it to his nose, smiling as he inhaled. It had an instantly calming effect, not unlike the steam from a fresh cup of tea. Without giving himself a moment to consider if it was stupid, he shucked off his own shirt and replaced it with Martin’s. He settled back into bed and waited to drift off to sleep. 

In the morning, he placed the t-shirt back in the drawer just as he found it. Martin didn’t need to know.

That evening, he took Martin’s advice and invited Daisy over to fill the void. She brought takeaway and turned on some inane television program to drone in the background. Daisy was always one to fill the silence with a mindless soundtrack. He thought it must have once served as a counterweight to her thoughts, anchoring her to a semblance of humanity with portraits of the everyday, of normal people and their normal lives. Now, he reckoned, it was mostly a lingering habit. 

Jon always appreciated that he and Daisy could lay about in comfortable silence for ages, chatting idly here and there until a longer conversation caught on, but the gaps in between never felt awkward. He peered over at her from the other end of the sofa, leaning against the armrest with his feet pulled up on the cushion.

“Have you and Basira… spent a lot of time apart since the...?” 

Daisy spared him the strain of making him name it. “Yeah, plenty. We didn’t live together at first, remember?”

“Hm,” Jon said at length. 

“Not everyone came out of that as joined at the hip as you two,” she said, not sounding as bitter as her words might suggest. “We had a lot to work through.” 

“So did we, we just--” 

“You just did it while clinging to each other in your little flat.”

Jon looked at her miserably.

“I’m not judging,” she added. “It’s just different. From me and Basira, anyway.” 

Jon slumped back, contemplative. “It just--it sort of scares me that I used to be so self-sufficient and now I can hardly bear to be away from Martin for one day.” 

“It scares you?”

“Well--yes, I was fine on my own for so long--”

“No you weren’t.”

“What?” 

Daisy shrugged. “You thought you were fine blocking everybody out, but that’s actually all it was, not some superhuman independence. You were just lonely and hellbent on being fine with it.” 

Jon heaved a sigh. “I suppose you’re not wrong.” 

Daisy leaned back passively into the couch cushion. “It’s not like you can’t get on with your life without him for a few days. You’re doing fine. You’re just not used to it.”

Jon nodded, appreciating the mild praise. He took a deep breath, searching for what was still bothering him. “I guess it just… still surprises me. What it’s like.”

“What what’s like?”

“This kind of love.”

Daisy rolled her eyes but her mouth was slightly curved. For all the love that she and Basira shared, they were highly unromantic about it. Jon and Martin were often targets for their judgment of overly infatuated couples.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “You and Basira are an entirely different kind of devoted. You can’t act like I’m the only one.”

“It’s different.” 

“Yes, it is. Isn’t that what I just said?” 

When Daisy scoffed, it always sounded like a passive growl. “Shut up, Sims.” 

“That’s not my name,” Jon muttered, his lips curling at the already tired joke. 

“I’m not going to start calling you ‘Blackwood.’ It’s never going to happen.” 

“I’m not asking you to.” 

She kicked at his foot with a slight scowl. “Look, you two are a little bit sickening, but it works. Stop worrying about it.”

Jon shrank back into the arm of the sofa. “Fine. I’ll take that as an attempt at comfort.” 

Daisy left before it got too late and Jon once again meandered upstairs, settling into bed to wait for Martin’s call. He had warned him that he’d be calling pretty late, as the dinner and social event was expected to stretch on longer than necessary. Their conversation was much briefer than the previous night as Martin was rather exhausted from a full day of seminars and networking and could barely keep his eyes open from the sound of it. Jon smiled at his sleepy mumbles and urged him to get some rest.

He had every intention not to, but before he fell asleep, he got up and pulled Martin’s t-shirt back out of the drawer. 

Jon woke with a jolt into darkness, a shout dying in his throat as he realized he’d been dreaming. He could have sworn the smell of melting flesh was real, the memory of it so vivid and pungent, matched with the visions of desecrated bodies and the screams of blame hurled his way… He tucked his nose inside the collar of the shirt and breathed until his heartbeat steadied a bit.

Before he fully realized what he’d done, he heard Martin on the other side of the phone, sounding half asleep but immediately worried.

“Jon? Are you okay?”

“Yes, y--I’m so sorry to wake you, it was just--just a nightmare, and I just--I wanted to hear your voice.”

Martin breathed out a fond sigh. “Oh, love, it’s alright. I’m glad you called.” 

“I really didn’t want to bother you, but this one was--it was really horrid.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” 

“Not particularly, I--” Vestiges of burning imagery flashed back to mind. “I just--I thought talking to you might help. And it has already, so I don’t need to keep you up.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “You know how fast I’ll be back to sleep.”

“Thank you, Martin.” 

“I love you, Jon.” 

He inhaled deeply as if he could suck the sound of those words right into his lungs and leave them there until morning. “I love you, too.”

“Just wait until tomorrow, and we’ll be right back to waking each other up with nightmares in person,” Martin said, and Jon laughed softly.

“I can hardly wait.” 

Friday passed at a glacial pace with the knowledge that Martin would be there waiting for him when he got home, as long as the train ran on time. When he got a text saying they’d left without delay around lunchtime, he felt the need to apologize to his afternoon classes for being so distracted. It was absurd, it really was. He couldn’t get like this every time Martin went out of town, because it surely wouldn’t be the last time. It was just that this was the first, he hoped. He’d get used to it, he’d have to. 

He packed up his things nearly as fast as his kids and was out of his classroom only a moment after the last stragglers made their way to the door. He found himself feeling absolutely childish with such a thrill physically coursing through his veins as he turned onto their block. It took actual focused restraint not to jog right up to their front door. He unlocked it and swept in, curving immediately into the kitchen and Martin was there at the counter with a cup of tea and his lovely grin. 

“Martin,” Jon said, barely a breath, stepping towards him as he got up to meet him with a tight embrace. 

“Hello, my love,” he said and pressed a kiss into his hair. Jon clamped his arms around his shoulders and buried his nose in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent that had been missing from his bed for the last two nights. “I’ve just been on a train for hours,” Martin laughed. “I’m sure I smell great.” 

“You do,” Jon said, pressing his lips to the same patch of skin and kissing his way up Martin’s jaw to his lips. Martin giggled at the onslaught but Jon couldn’t find it in himself to feel foolish now. This is what he craved coming home to each day, this strong, sturdy embrace accompanied by soft, familiar lips, and these were just the physical comforts. It was the warmth, literal and figurative, the laughter, the steady, pervasive sense of companionship. He dropped his head against Martin’s shoulder and cradled him close. 

“So, how did you get on without me?” Martin asked, gently caressing his back. 

“Just fine,” Jon said. “I just felt like I was missing a limb,” he added, a muffled mutter into Martin’s shoulder.

“A bit melodramatic, are we?” Martin said, but he could hear the smile in it. 

“I can’t help it. I don’t remember sleeping alone ever being so awful.” 

“Let’s not make a habit of it, then.” 

Jon lifted his head and framed Martin’s face with his hands, kissing him again thoroughly. An amused noise escaped Martin’s throat. 

“You really did miss me, huh?” 

“How many times do I have to say it?” 

Martin laughed and pressed his lips to his forehead.

“Well, come on,” Jon said, nodding toward the living room. “I want to hear all about it. Let me just make tea.”

“Already done,” Martin said, gesturing to the counter behind him. Jon hadn’t even noticed the steaming mug there waiting for him. 

“Oh, I do love you,” he said, grabbing it from the counter and following Martin into the living room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i started writing this long before i knew this was gonna be a Bad Time for Daisy in recent episodes but i'm just gonna continue on in my own little "daisy turns out ok and goes to therapy" world
> 
> i'm slowin down folks.... i don't have many chapters/ideas left but i'm sure stuff will pop up here and there, just not as frequent!!


	19. that strange and empty light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time since the world changed, Jon and Martin tell someone new the story of what they’d been through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mild mention of homophobia
> 
> also: in light of recent episodes, note that in this, Jon’s injury from Daisy is treated with a bit of cynical levity. I don’t mean to minimize the way Jon felt about that incident - in this safe, happy future, I try to understand how they’d cope with their trauma a few years on, decades on, etc. but I’m no expert so I hope it doesn’t come off as diminishing. thanks for reading as always <3

“There he is,” Martin said when he heard the front door click closed. When they planned with Lena to have her over for dinner tonight, Jon had forgotten that he had parent-teacher conferences scheduled, but he assured them he’d gladly join late rather than reschedule entirely. 

He appeared through the kitchen door and approached Martin at the stove before setting down his bag.

“Hello, darling,” he muttered into a brief, greeting kiss. He turned to Lena. “I hope you didn’t wait for me to begin anything.”

“Not at all, we’re just nibbling on some cheese,” she said, nodding towards the plate in front of her and then the bottle beside it. “Wine?”

“Please,” he said, reaching around Martin with a hand on his back to procure himself a glass from the cupboard. Martin turned and took hold of his satchel and helped him out of his jacket before he moved away. “Thank you,” Jon said, sounding surprised as he shrugged the last arm out of the sleeve. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t get used to it. I’m just showing off,” Martin said, flashing him a grin. “I want to be sure Lena knows what a model husband I am.” 

“I wasn’t going to say it,” Jon shot back, and Lena laughed while she poured him a glass of wine from the bottle of red she brought. When Martin returned from hanging Jon’s things in the hall closet, he was just settling into the barstool beside Lena at the counter. 

“I heard another brilliant rumor about myself this evening,” Jon said.

“Is this like when they thought you were retired spies?” Lena asked.

“It’s a nearly identical theory. A particularly unscrupulous dad let me know that he heard his son and his friends discussing my supposed history with the Russian mafia. He asked me point blank if it was true.”

“He asked you that?” Martin said, leaning on the counter across from the other two. “First of all, he _believed_ that?”

“Oh yes,” Jon replied. “We barely talked about his son’s performance. He clearly scheduled the meeting because he thought he was about to uncover all my secrets that would render me unfit to teach.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “What’s his problem with you?”

“Nothing I could tell beside the fact that he gave my photo of us a good once over and asked who you were.” 

“Ah,” Lena said, with a knowing nod. “A classic bigot with a superiority complex.”

“He also asked me about the scar on my neck,” Jon said. “He seemed to think it was the key to all my lies.” 

“What did you tell him?” Martin asked.

“The normal excuse,” he said. “Told him I’d been mugged.” 

“Should have poached that previous theory and said it was from when I was hired to kill you,” Martin said. “Really send him reeling.” 

“Oh, yes,” Lena said, upping the drama. “There you stood with a knife to his throat, and you looked into his eyes, and _knew.”_

Jon gave a disparaging laugh. “Don’t let Daisy hear you taking responsibility for that one,” he said to Martin. “She’s rather proud of it these days.”

Lena’s face fell a bit in confusion. “Like, your friend, Daisy? Who I met at your wedding?”

“Yes,” Jon answered.

She narrowed her eyes. “How many of your closest friends have attacked you with knives?”

Jon ducked his head and sighed, looking embarrassed yet amused. Martin chuckled and turned back to the stove to let him handle that one. 

“Just Daisy and Melanie, I swear. And we didn’t become close until after the fact in both cases.”

“Oh _that_ makes it better,” Lena said. “Seriously, I’ve heard you used to be a prick but… what did you _do?_ ”

Jon gave an awkward laugh. “Do you want an itemized list?” 

“To put it simply, he was a nightmare boss,” Martin said, sparing a glance back to see Jon glare in his direction.

“Very clever.” 

After dinner, they moved into the living room and brought the other bottle of wine along. Jon settled on the floor in front of Martin, his back reclined against the bottom of the sofa. He’d always been one to forego comfortable seating options in favor of the ground, one of his husband’s many quirks that Martin just didn’t quite get. But it turned out Lena was a fellow floor-sitter so whenever she came round, they both sat level with the surface of the coffee table while Martin lorded over them from the couch. Jon liked to rest between Martin’s knees and use them as headrests, and he didn’t mind at all absently combing his fingers through Jon’s hair while he was there. 

Lena poured a bit more wine into her glass and looked down at it strangely. 

“Could I ask you guys a question?” she said. 

“Go on,” Martin said. 

She pursed her lips, looking unsure if she should continue, and finally cocked her head and spoke.

“Would you tell me what your old job actually was?” 

Jon let out an agonized laugh, tipping his head onto Martin’s thigh. 

“What, you're not satisfied with the tantalizing mystery?” Martin said. 

Lena smiled shamefully, tilting her head a bit. “It’s not that, I just know you guys went through some serious shit and if you ever wanted to talk about it, I’d be glad to listen.”

Martin’s face dropped, genuinely touched by the offer. “It’s… It’s really not an easy story to tell. Just in general, I mean. It’s--it was a really complicated situation.”

“I totally get that,” Lena said, putting an understanding hand out. “I’m really sorry if I’m overstepping. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but seriously, I just want you to know I’d never judge, whatever it was.”

“I actually don’t mind,” Jon piped up, sounding surprised with himself. 

“You don’t?” Martin said.

He shrugged. “I don’t see how it could hurt, as long as you really make a point of keeping it to yourself.”

Martin scratched at the base of Jon’s neck a bit. “Oh, I can see how it could hurt…”

Jon huffed a laugh and craned around to look at him. “Well, yes, it’s not particularly fun to talk about. I just mean I don’t really think it could hurt for her to know.” 

“Yeah,” Martin said, some of his hesitance dissolving. “As long as you’re in for a long, heavy story.”

“I can take it,” Lena said with a shrug, then gesturing to the two of them. “It obviously has a happy ending.” 

“I suppose that is what you might call this,” Jon said, and Martin could hear the small smile in the softness of his voice. He laid his hands on Jon’s shoulders and squeezed gently. 

“I mean, listen--I know you have your friends who went through it all with you. I know you’re not alone in it, but I just always wonder if it would be at all… I don’t know, cathartic? To tell someone new,” Lena said. “And if we’re being honest, then yes. I’m super fucking curious. It’s killing me,” she added playfully, rolling her eyes at herself. 

Jon leaned back into Martin’s soft grip. “This could be interesting,” he said. “What’s your current theory?”

Lena blew a sigh out between her lips. “I’ve truly got no clue. All I’ve got is it turned out to be a front for something terrible, you were both manipulated into doing people's dark bidding, and people died. So…”

“God, when you put it that way, it really does sound like the mafia or something,” Martin said.

“You’re sounding like my students,” Jon said.

“And…” Lena continued. “I’ve always gotten the idea that it had something to do with what happened-- you know. What happened a few years ago.”

“Well, you’d be correct about that,” Jon said, his voice dropping low. 

“Yeah,” Lena said, nodding sympathetically, seeming to have figured out as much.

Suddenly, Jon hoisted himself up from his position. “I should probably get up off the floor for this,” he said, dropping next to Martin on the sofa. 

Lena huddled closer to the coffee table, offering them both more wine. Martin declined but Jon nudged his glass toward her. 

“I’ll warn you, I don’t come off in a particularly positive light in this story,” Jon said. 

Lena focused on filling his glass. “I reckon that’s why two of your friends stabbed you?” 

He laughed, a hoarse, bitter thing. “Something like that.” 

“I’m serious,” Lena said, setting the bottle back down. “I get that you guys got wrapped up in something well over your heads. I’m not going to blame you for being manipulated.” 

“Thanks,” Martin said, nodding. “We all made our own questionable decisions at the time.”

“Some more than others,” Jon said.

Martin turned his hand over inviting Jon to lay his own in it and they embarked. They began with the basics, the fundamental truths they’d been made privy to, and worked toward some specifics of their experience, exchanging glances when mutually opting to leave out particular details. Lena sat rapt, shaking her head and muttering incredulous swears at every turn. 

When Martin started describing the aftermath of the Unknowing, of sitting by Jon’s side through his coma and getting caught up with Peter Lukas, he glanced over at Jon and saw his eyes had gone a bit misty. He found Jon’s hand again and intertwined it with his.

“Alright, love?” Martin asked, pausing his story. 

“I’m fine. You can keep going,” Jon said, thumbing at the corner of his eye. “These memories don’t mix particularly well with wine, is all,” he added with a small laugh. 

They explained how the change unfolded in as little detail as they could get away with, and when they unceremoniously brought the tale to a close, Lena was left looking dumbstruck yet satisfied.

“You know,” she said. “It’s absolutely mental, but no more mental than I expected.”

Martin laughed. “Really?”

She shrugged. “I mean, once I put together that it had something to do with all that, I reckoned it was something pretty, er... beyond this world, as it were.” 

“Well, I hope we don’t make it as obvious to everyone else,” Martin said.

“Not really,” she said. “Just some little things you let slip here and there.” 

“Like what?” Martin spluttered. 

“One time in a pub, you told us that your husband used to know literally everything and told you who killed Kennedy.” 

Jon whipped his head towards him. “You said that in _public_?” 

Martin grimaced. “Look, it was easy to laugh off,” he argued. “People thought I was joking and I ran with that when I realized what I’d said.”

“Good lord, Martin,” he muttered. 

Lena laid her crossed arms along the edge of the coffee table and rested her chin on there.

“I can’t believe that at the very least, you never told me about your fairytale elopement to the highlands,” she said, feigning a pout. 

“Is that what you heard?” Jon said. “I’m not sure we explained it properly, then.” 

“Yeah, did you catch the part where it ended in the apocalypse?” Martin said. 

“Whatever,” she said. “All I heard was blah blah, heroic rescue, romantic reunion, blah blah, secluded romantic safehouse. Was there more after that?”

“Just a bit,” Martin said. 

Jon unbent his folded up legs and planted his feet on the floor, leaning forward to face Lena in earnest. 

“Thank you for listening,” he said, and she nodded.

“I’m glad you trusted me enough to share,” she said. “And _god_ , am I glad to have that mystery solved,” she tacked on quickly. 

“Make sense why I got stabbed so many times now?” Jon said, dryly. 

“Not _entirely,_ to be honest, but I guess so.” 

“We’ve never told anyone about all that,” Martin said.

“Well, I’m honored,” Lena said. “And I promise it’s just between us.”

Jon gave Martin a skeptical glance. “At least I actually trust you to not go spouting off incriminating details.”

“It was one time!” Martin cried.

“It was a bit more than one time…” Lena muttered, draining her glass that she already emptied an hour ago.

“What else?” Jon demanded. “What else has he said?” 

“It’s not all about you,” she assured him, directing her gaze at Martin. “You once said something about being trapped in your flat for two weeks but you made it sound like you had a stalker or something.” 

Jon leaned back against Martin’s arm, laughing with his fingers pressed to his temple. 

“Look,” Martin said. “Get a drink in me and I like to tell an interesting story, even if it sounds like a lie.” 

“Now you can keep an eye on him in my absence,” Jon said to Lena. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll shoot him the daggers next time he gets a little too specific,” she said, miming a watchful gaze with two fingers. 

They walked Lena to the door and Martin pulled her into a warm hug. To his surprise, Jon stepped in after him and hugged her as well. After the door shut behind her, they turned towards each other and let out matching sighs. 

“Well, that was different,” Jon said. 

Martin nodded. “It kind of felt... good.”

“Yes,” Jon said, just as incredulous. “It felt like--like it was just a story. Well, not _just_ a story but it--it felt like--”

“The past?”

Jon exhaled. “Yes.” 

They both glanced into the kitchen at the mild mess left behind by dinner.

“We’ll clean up in the morning, yeah?” Martin said. 

“Yes, alright,” Jon said, and followed him upstairs to get ready for bed.

Just as Martin settled down, Jon turned to him and reached out for his face, which Martin turned within his reach. His lithe fingers stroked the edge of his jaw and he ran his thumb over his cheek, looking at him curiously like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

“What?” Martin said, and Jon shook his head lightly. 

“I am so fortunate,” he said, his voice a high, airy whisper. “To have gone through all we did and end up with you.” 

Martin’s heart still fluttered whenever Jon said something so steeped in love, though it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. He took Jon’s hand and brought it to his lips, feeling a fierceness rise up in him. Their relationship was forged from fear and strife, a refuge from abuse and peril, beginning so meagerly and then thrust into a deadly, noxious hellscape as soon as they had a moment to breathe. Sometimes, his appreciation for what they had now slipped back to rage at what they’d been dragged through to get here. It could have been anyone, but it happened to them. They both took the wrong job at the wrong time, picked up the wrong book, told the wrong lie… Then again, the question of just how many strings were pulled by something bigger than them was never quite answered. 

Martin sighed and shook his head, trying to dispel some of the frustration that bubbled up. 

“God, why couldn’t I have just… met you in a park or something? Like at a cafe, or… god forbid, on a dating app.”

Jon laughed and brushed Martin’s fringe off his forehead. “I’d have never been on a dating app.”

“Yeah, but imagine if you were and we could have skipped all the terrible bits, just gone on regular dates like regular people, doing regular, boring jobs and all that...” 

Jon cocked his head against his pillow, patronizing. “I’m not quite sure it would have worked out that way.” 

“You’re right,” Martin said. “You still would have hated me at first sight but then there would have never been a second date.” 

“I never hated you,” Jon muttered, a well-worn argument by now.

“Oh, that’s right, you were just terrified of how cute you thought I was.” 

Jon rolled his eyes with a coy smile. “I would have almost certainly been besotted with you in any case, but I can’t guarantee I’d have undergone the same, ah… personal growth that allowed me to understand it.”

Martin propped himself up on an elbow to glare down at him. “You think you wouldn’t have understood love if it weren’t for unspeakable trauma?”

“I don’t know,” Jon said, a quirk to his lips that betrayed how absurd he knew that was. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“Take _that_ one to your therapist next week,” he said, dropping back down to his pillow. 

“Well, it doesn’t quite matter, because we got what we got,” Jon said. He shuffled closer and kissed Martin on the forehead, craning up with great effort. “And I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, angling to press their lips together. “I guess I did get what I wanted.” 

“What’s that, an insufferable husband?”

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” Martin said, kissing him again. “Ever since I was a kid, all I wanted was an irritating, crotchety old man living in my house and leaving his socks everywhere.” 

Jon gave an amused hum. “I’m lucky I fit the bill.” 

Martin engulfed him in his arms and Jon clung back, ducking his head to his chest. 

“I just wanted to be happy,” Martin whispered. “Best case scenario, it was with you.” 

“Best case scenario, you got all that and no one died,” Jon mumbled into the space between them. 

“Yeah, well,” he said. “Like you said, this is what we got. It's not too far off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon tell the world who killed kennedy, coward
> 
> constantly wishing i had any visual art skills because my eyes crave so many images this time it is martin on couch, jon on floor, head on martin’s leg
> 
> writing this was a cursed task because I dont want to give even a hint of context to how people remember/rebuilt from the apocalypse, that is too complex for my dumb little domestic world and not my job


	20. I don't care to be forgiven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets in a minor argument at his school's holiday party. Martin doesn't mind watching one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: sexism, invalidating trauma

Martin often teased Jon for his reluctance to mingle with his colleagues, but that wasn’t quite fair. He knew it wasn’t just standoffishness; the school Jon taught at was quite pompous, the faculty a mixed bag of backgrounds and ideologies, of which Jon and the few others he actually liked were the minority. The student body was prevailingly well-to-do, so it attracted a faculty to match. 

When he started there, he’d been the youngest and by default, highly favored amongst the kids for his outlook that wasn’t as detached from theirs as some of the older faculty. Now, not quite as young, he still stood out as one of the most progressive teachers on staff, a natural explanation as to why so many students confided in him, to Jon’s dismay. For the first few years, he would come home a wreck when a student cornered him after class, desperate for a sympathetic ear, and spilled their heart about their home life or their mental health or confusion over their own identity. He’d gotten a lot better over the years at bearing his burden of default relatability, a trait he hadn’t expected to hold as a teacher. 

As for his colleagues, there were a handful that he got on with quite well, though Jon never really made a point to foster the kinds of friendships Martin did in his workplace. He didn’t initiate after work drinks, no matter how many times Martin suggested such a thing, and he didn’t keep up much with any of them outside of the school building, even the ones he’d dare to call friends.

One such person was Kalli, one of the newest teachers in the English department. She had made a concerted effort to befriend Jon when they met and recently, wore him down into agreeing to show up at the holiday party, her first with the school. 

“I tried to tell her they’re not worth it,” he said. 

“She’s young and just wants to make a good impression,” Martin explained, and Jon scoffed. 

“Well, what difference does it make if I’m there? Probably makes a worse impression to be associated with me, honestly.”

Martin cocked his head. “She clearly trusts you. She wants a friendly face there.” 

Jon looked at him with perhaps the unfriendliest of faces. “I suppose I understand.”

“Could be fun,” he offered with an optimistic shrug. Martin did love a holiday party. 

“You know what it’s like,” Jon said. “They’re not like your office parties. It’s an awful crowd.”

“Yeah, but maybe you’ll be surprised. You never know.” 

The school had rented an upper floor of a restaurant for the event, a dimly lit, cozy space with a lounge-like atmosphere adorned with some tasteful wintry lights and greenery. Martin quite liked the feel of it, actually, but was met with a scowl when he said so. Jon introduced him to Kalli, an extremely pleasant young woman whose spirit was decidedly incongruous with the faculty at large. She was eager to know more about Martin’s work with the British Library and he was happy to oblige, so they all sought out a spot where they could sit and chat. 

They awkwardly occupied one end of a pair of leather sofas beside an ongoing conversation between three people who showed no recognition of either Jon or Kalli, so no acknowledgement was made. They tried to carry on their own conversation but their attention kept getting pulled by the comments of a particularly brash man that Kalli had taken the seat next to on the sofa across the way. He sat diagonal from Martin and Jon, fortunately turned away from them so he didn’t notice the wide-eyed glances they’d all exchange each time he said something particularly tactless. 

The man seemed to be describing to his two acquaintances the underperformance of a young woman at his workplace, though it was unclear what she’d done wrong besides being a human with needs and feelings. 

“Is he a teacher?” Martin whispered. 

“I’ve never seen him. I think he’s a spouse,” Jon said. “Even so, these things always remind me precisely why we sent Ellen to another school.” 

“Is that your daughter?” Kalli asked.

“Yeah, she’s seventeen,” Martin said.

For a bit, they told Kalli about Ellen and tried to block it all out. Martin took care to project his voice just a bit in the hope that perhaps this man might curtail his sexist diatribe if he heard the couple right beside him had a young daughter, as foolish as it was. It clearly didn’t change a thing, because he then heard a comment that seemed to rise above the noise. 

“And she’s the type to go crying about having PTSD about that 2018 nonsense, and she couldn’t have been older than four at the time, I’m telling you.”

A glance to his side made it clear Jon heard it much the same, clear as day. Jon dropped all pretense and his focus latched onto this callous man, though he blathered on blissfully ignorant of Jon’s scathing gaze.

Not everyone who was alive for the apocalypse maintained such vivid memories of what they experienced. This did, unfortunately, allow for those who lost a great deal of memory of it, if not all, to deny that it happened if they felt so inclined. Nothing needled at Jon’s nerves more than a denier, but it had been a long while since he’d let himself get into a public disagreement with one, or even had the opportunity. Martin reckoned he was cataloging all of the man’s terrible sentiments to rehash in private later. 

The man spoke again. “You know, ask her what she was out for and she’ll probably say it was a ‘mental health day’ or something like that. That generation will say anything to skive off and lucky them, right? They just happened to be alive when the world decided to claim a big shared hallucination.” 

Martin almost jolted at the sound of Jon’s voice, suddenly piercing into the neighboring conversation. 

“Have you ever considered that if you have the liberty to deny it, perhaps you forfeit the right to talk about it?” 

His words, spoken in a tone Martin knew meant this man should seek shelter, silenced the conversation momentarily. 

“Sorry, what?” the man said, though he’d clearly heard perfectly. Jon repeated himself regardless.

“If you have the liberty to deny it,” he said, slow and calm. “Perhaps you forfeit the right to pass judgment on those who don’t.” 

The man looked at Jon with great confidence that he couldn’t possibly be in the wrong. “So, you can tell me what I’m allowed to talk about or not, is that it?” 

Martin knew Jon was in for a fight by the way he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, long fingers steepled under his chin. His laserlike stare could have branded the man’s flesh.

“Not at all,” Jon said. “I’m asking if you’ve considered keeping your mouth shut when you know your words could seriously hurt someone.”

The man tilted his head, rife with condescension. “I’m not hurting anyone, I’m not even talking about--”

“Are you sure?” Jon said, glancing around the room. “Have you cleared it with everyone here that they’re not bothered by the most disastrous, traumatic event of our lifetime being made to sound like a joke? Because I believe I missed that survey, and I apologize. If I’m the only one, I’ll back off.” 

The man laughed, a terrible, smug thing. “There’s no need to get dramatic.”

“Well, have you considered there are people in this room who still carry around vividly what they saw back then every single day?”

“Look, mate--”

“I’m just asking if you've considered it. Have you? It’s a simple yes or no.”

Martin couldn’t help but bite his lip as his mouth involuntarily curled into a smirk. He locked eyes with Kalli across the way, who’s jaw hung slightly open, eyes wide in a mix of horror and amusement. Martin gave her a nod as if to say yes, this was in fact happening. 

The man laughed again, but Jon continued. “If the answer is yes, by all means, carry on. You’ve thought through your decision to speak completely. But if you haven’t, might I suggest you give it a moment’s consideration before you continue invalidating the trauma of billions out loud in the middle of a crowded holiday party.”

“You know they say that--” 

“What do they say? Do tell,” Jon snapped. 

Martin barely held in a haughty laugh. He briefly recalled what it was like to be on the receiving end of Jon’s vitriol. They weren’t pleasant memories, but it had been decades since Jon directed such an unforgiving tone towards him. Listening to his husband tear into this abominable stranger had an entirely different effect. He felt his cheeks flush and had to cover his pleased grin with his hand. 

The man stuttered for the briefest second before continuing. “They say over half the people who report traumatic memories from it have made them up or embellished to some degree, whether intentionally or not.” 

Jon gave a passive hum. “They also say that there has never been a more globally traumatic event in the entire history of the human race, indiscriminate of geographic location, an absolutely unprecedented impact with an incalculable effect on the public psyche regardless of memory retention.”

Suddenly the man smirked and cocked his head. “You teach history?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Just because you teach it in Year 9 history doesn’t make you an expert, mate.”

Jon let out a dry, scornful laugh. “I teach Year 10 history, and I couldn’t begin to explain just how very wrong you are in this particular instance.” Martin had half a mind to lay a supportive hand on his back, but in this case, he didn’t dare distract him. He wanted to see this play out. 

“Well if you think you _are_ an expert, maybe you _should_ explain,” the man retorted. “Then perhaps I’ll understand how this unexplained phenomena that no one can seem to prove anything about is still such a problem twenty years on.” 

At this, Jon’s hands fell between his knees and he leaned forward as slow as possible, as if he could command the man’s undivided attention with his voice. 

“I assure you,” Jon said, a low, seething whisper, each word rolling out slow like a curse. “You do not want to know what I know.” 

Martin would have jumped in right then if it weren’t for the appearance of a woman who seemed to be the man’s wife, having been notified of the commotion.

“Is everything alright over here?” she said, glancing around the scene.

The man looked up at her with slight contempt. 

“Just chatting, Sharon,” he said, with feigned pleasantness. Martin felt a sudden pang of sadness for the woman. 

Jon smiled up at her. “Sorry, Sharon. I was just asking your husband to defend some remarks he made. I’m sure as a guidance counselor, you’d agree that it can be very damaging to undermine one’s trauma, yes?” 

Sharon shot her husband a withering glare. “Dennis? Can we have a word?” 

He made a show of heaving himself up off the sofa and waving politely at his previous companions, who continued to sit as dumbfounded as they had through the entire brief confrontation. 

“Sorry fellas, it was nice talking to you.” He then gave Jon a disdainful little salute. “Pleasure.” 

They watched the couple walk off and the other two wasted no time making their exits to some other edge of the party as well. When Jon finally leaned back against the sofa, his shoulders still rigid with fury, he looked at Martin and saw his reverent, admiring grin. 

“What?”

Martin leaned close to his ear. 

“Jon, I’m saying this only because I know you have no idea. That was _incredibly_ hot.” 

He snorted a laugh, but his smile dropped when Martin didn’t laugh along. “What, really?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, of course you would think that,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“It’s not just me,” Martin said. “That lady over there in the purple? Don’t look now, but she can’t take her eyes off of you.”

Jon glanced anyway. “Oh god, she’s recently divorced,” he muttered in distress. 

Martin chuckled and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. “Would you like to leave?”

“Very much so.” 

As they got up, another friend of Jon’s appeared, a maths teacher named Mark. He approached with an air of pure glee, but Jon grimaced. 

“I suppose you caught some of that?” he asked. 

Mark scoffed. “God, I couldn’t look away. I thought I heard a bit of a tiff and I started listening when I saw it was you. That was the best thing that’s ever happened at one of these things.” 

Jon gave an awkward laugh and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I, er… I don’t usually get that fired up at strangers, but he just--it’s a bit of a pet concern of mine.”

“Yeah, well sometimes, someone’s gotta do it. Nice job, mate.”

“Thank you,” Jon laughed, but Martin could see the tension rising in his posture as he started to worry about getting sucked into another social situation when all he wanted to do was go home. Suddenly, Jon gestured to Kalli. 

“Have the two of you met…?” 

Mark waved with vague recognition. “Oh yeah, Year 8 English, right?”

“That’s me,” she said. “My name’s Kalli.”

“Mark,” he said, shaking her hand. “I think a round of drinks is in order after that thrilling show.” 

Jon held up an apologetic hand, looking mostly towards Kalli. “Oh--I’m sorry, but I think we’re rather ready to head out for the evening.” 

“No worries,” Kalli said, still looking incredulous and delighted. “I thought I made you come so I didn’t end up sitting alone all night. Didn’t know you were also the entertainment.” 

Jon groaned, but afforded an embarrassed smile.

Mark looked at Kalli and pointed off in the direction of the bar. “You in for a drink then? We can go find my partner and you’re more than welcome to hang with us.” 

They said their goodbyes and Martin wound his arm around Jon’s as they made their way to the door. 

“Expert move, pawning your friends off on each other so you can escape,” he said. 

Jon huffed a laugh. “I just hope it wasn’t so obvious to them.” 

“They’ll probably be too distracted for a while talking about what a badass you are to notice.” 

“Hardly.” 

When they got home and made their way upstairs, Ellen’s door was wide open as if she was waiting for them. They’d developed a habit of piling into her bedroom to bother her if they ever spent an evening out. Though she acted exasperated, she played into it every time. 

“Knock knock,” Martin said. “We’re home.”

Ellen was hunched over her computer at her desk. She glanced over her shoulder. “Have fun?”

“Something like that,” Jon said.

“Are you busy?” Martin chimed. “You’ve got to hear what your dad did.”

“Martin…” 

Ellen swung around fully in her desk chair. “What did you do?” 

“Oh, he got _spiteful_ with a guy who’d been spouting some nonsense, an apocalypse denier and all that. Absolutely destroyed him. You should have heard him, El.” 

Her mouth fell open in a gleeful grin. “What did you say?” 

“I’m not about to replay the entire argument,” Jon grumbled.

Martin wedged past him through the door. “ _I_ am. Can we sit?” 

He perched on the edge of her bed and recounted the conversation to the best of his ability to Ellen’s sheer delight. Jon stood by and listened with his hand loosely obscuring his self-conscious smirk as he heard some of his own words for the first time, no doubt having been blind with rage when he said them.

“And then,” Martin said, squaring off the story with Jon’s final critical line. “He went all ominous and goes, _'I_ _assure you, you do not want to know.’_ It sounded like a death threat.” 

Ellen doubled over in laughter, laying her head on the bed from her seat in the desk chair. 

“Oh god,” Jon croaked, gripping his own forehead. “Did I say that? Was I too much?” 

“God no,” he said. “You were amazing.” 

“I just sort of wish I hadn’t done that in a room full of my colleagues.”

“Honestly, love, I don’t think that many people heard it. You’re fine.” 

“Why didn’t you stop me?” Jon said, devoid of any actual accusation. “Usually, you’d stop me from going on that kind of rampage, but you just let me carry on, didn’t you?”

Martin shrugged. “Well, like I said, it was pretty hot.” 

“Christ, Martin.”

“Ew, Dad.”

“What?” he said. “Mercilessly putting some arsehole in his place? He was turning heads, I’m serious. Had to get him out of there before someone tried to steal him away.”

“You just said you don’t think anyone heard.”

“I said I don’t think _that many_ people heard.” 

Jon groaned. “Those people really don’t need any more reasons to think I’m crazy.” 

“Well, you know how it is,” Martin said. “You wouldn’t want the approval of the people who’d hate you for it, and the people who’d admire you for it already agree with you.” 

With an irritated sigh, Jon turned and flopped backwards across Ellen’s bed. 

“I--I just--where do people like him get _off_? What exactly do you get out of it? And it’s not as if I actually taught him a lesson. He’d never learn, and then it turned out he’s Sharon’s--for Christ’s sake, she’s the guidance counselor! He’s married to a guidance counselor and says things like that in public? I hope she leaves him.” 

Martin chuckled and tugged at his wool collar. “Take your coat off, love. You’re going to overheat.” 

“I’m fine,” Jon said, letting his eyes fall closed and folding his hands across his chest. “That was exhausting. I’m going to sleep here. Ellen can sleep with you.”

“Not a chance,” Ellen said passively. 

“If she’s willing to wear socks so she doesn’t touch me with freezing feet, she’s in,” Martin said. 

“I hate socks,” Jon grumbled, barely intelligible. 

Martin nudged at his shoulder. “Come on. Up and off. Let’s leave her alone.”

He begrudgingly sat up and got off the bed, and Martin followed behind him out the door. 

“Proud of you, Dad,” Ellen called after him, and Jon hummed a sleepy, appreciative laugh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again my reluctance to get specific about the societal fallout from the apocalypse makes for very confusing writing  
> i got a little more specific tho


	21. how the future's done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin realize they can take some liberties with the date of their anniversary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> caved and finally did an actual mushaboom title after accidentally leaving this title-less for like 20 hours
> 
> yesterday was September 25th and i’ve been thinking about the fact that it’s their anniversary since last week  
> if you’re not as big of a nerd about canonical dates in things as me, September 25th, 2018 is the date MAG 158-159 take place, and October 18th is MAG 160.

“You know, October starts next week,” Martin said.

Jon sat across from him at the kitchen table, one hand wrapped around a cooling cup of tea and the other hovering a pencil over the crossword puzzle. “Yes, it does.” 

“You know what that means.”

Jon looked up with put-on distaste, but Martin didn’t miss the fondness peeking through. “You’re going to start adding horrendously cheesy Halloween music to your cooking playlists?”

Martin chuckled. “Well, yeah, that too, but also it’s… Well, it’ll have been a year.”

Jon squinted at him for a moment before he caught on. “Oh.”

“On the 18th.”

“Yes,” Jon said. “I suppose it will be.” 

Martin shrugged, trying to affect a casualness. “I just… sort of wanted to check, do you want to--do you want to do something?”

“Do something?”

“I don’t know, to celebrate? To celebrate putting an end to it, obviously. Or we could just ignore it completely, let the date fade into obscurity. I think either option is entirely valid.” 

Jon put his pencil down and folded his hands, considering. Suddenly, he looked up.

“Wait, doesn’t that mean--it’ll have been a year since we left for Scotland, too? What, erm--when--”

“September 25th.” 

Jon furrowed his brow. “This Wednesday?”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “That’s why I was thinking about it, honestly.” 

“Doesn’t that sort of make Wednesday our anniversary?” 

Martin smiled. “Well, yeah, but it’s definitely been well over a year since, you know. Unquantifiable apocalypse time and all that.”

Jon laughed fondly. “Regardless of that, we should--we should have a date we call our anniversary, shouldn’t we?” 

“Well, yeah,” Martin said, hesitant. “But… I don’t know. That day, er… The day we left for Scotland was a pretty bad one all around, even if you do take into account all the love confessions and the kissing.” 

“Yes,” Jon said, with an amused smile. “What if we split the difference and said our anniversary was October 18th?” 

Martin gave a humorless laugh. “I’d call that one a pretty bad day, as well.”

“Yes, but…” Jon’s mouth twisted, considering how he wanted to phrase his thought. “I’m thinking about after, not before. It was the same day when the sun rose again, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Martin said with a questioning smile. “Well, I guess technically, it would have been the 19th when the sun rose.”

“That’s true,” Jon said. “That was truly the first day of our lives together, don’t you think?”

“The first day we got to breathe, anyway.”

“So, October 19th. A day to actually celebrate.” 

Martin smiled. “I like the sound of that.” 

October 19th conveniently fell on a Saturday. Jon was someone who believed the best kind of lie-in was one that was planned for ahead of time. Martin disagreed, but if all it took was a clear conversation the night before to get Jon to stay in bed past 9, it wasn’t a very big price to pay. He was always an early riser, getting bored quickly if Martin didn’t wake up soon enough. On days off, Jon often slipped out of bed at least an hour before him and Martin would have to bodily drag him back to bed if he wanted a cozy lie-in. 

That morning, Martin woke to a series of sweet, slow kisses pressed to his cheek, and his eyes fluttered open to find Jon hovering just by his face. He turned onto his back and Jon followed, leaning over his head and kissing him soundly. 

“Happy anniversary,” Martin said.

Jon smiled down at him, an impish glint in his eye. “Is that today?”

“Well, no, not really. But we’ve decided it is, apparently.”

Jon laughed, low and content, and wrapped his arms around Martin’s neck to burrow his nose into his temple. “Good morning.”

“Seems like it.”

Jon clung to him, wriggling slightly as he tried to get comfortable again, but Martin took the opportunity to disturb his peace and roll him over onto his back so he could drop his mouth onto Jon’s neck. Jon promptly reclined his head to give him more room, his hands roaming over Martin’s back and up through his hair. He muttered Martin’s name as he worked, relaxing into the mattress under them. 

“You know, I always worried--” Jon said, punctuated by the occasional sharp breath. “I always thought being with someone for so long would--I thought I’d inevitably get bored. Of the little things.” 

“Like this?” Martin barely removed his lips from Jon’s neck, nipping at his pulse and making him gasp.

“Yes,” he rasped.

“Are you?”

“Never,” he said. “Not once.”

Martin giggled and relented with a kiss to his cheek and then lightly to his lips before falling back on his pillow. Jon curled over to nestle his head on his chest.

“How long do you reckon it’s actually been?”

“Martin, there is literally no way of knowing.”

He patted Jon's back thoughtfully. “I mean, but what did it _feel_ like to you, the whole gap?”

“Felt like weeks. Also felt like months. A year. Six days. I couldn’t tell you.”

“So we’ve been together anywhere from one to ten years.” 

Jon laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far.” 

“What time is it, anyway?” 

Jon lifted his head to glance at the clock on the side table, looking guilty when he turned back. “Just about 8…”

Martin groaned. “You couldn’t let me sleep one more hour?” 

Jon stroked his thumb down his cheek with a mischievous grin. “You looked so pretty. I couldn’t help it. You can go back to sleep if you’d like.”

“No, no, I’m up,” Martin said, tightening his arms around Jon’s back. “You might owe me tea in bed, though.”

Jon swooped down and kissed him once more. “Gladly.” 

Once he returned with tea, Martin kept Jon tethered to a lazy morning in bed with an arm around his waist, chatting idly about how they might spend the day. 

They went out for a walk mid afternoon, planning to meander wherever to whatever parks and markets they came across and eventually stumble upon an interesting dinner spot. 

They found themselves around Covent Garden and walked out onto Waterloo Bridge to admire the river for a moment just as the sun began to descend and make way for a bitter autumn evening. Jon leaned with his arms against the railing, crossed at the wrists, and stared down the river below as it stretched into the hazy horizon. Martin had recently bought him a new, decent black peacoat when the weather got cooler after he sheepishly admitted he’d been wearing the same old coat for nearly ten years. It detracted a bit from his typical disheveled professor aesthetic, but it looked so properly dashing on him, Martin insisted he wear it at least on occasion. 

Martin took in the sight of him, the dimming early evening light warming his face in that way that made his sharp angles look softer, the wind buffeting loose strands of hair around his eyes. Jon reflexively reached up to swipe them away every few seconds, and Martin laughed at the losing battle. 

“Don’t move,” Martin said, grappling in his pocket for his phone.

Immediately disobeying instructions, Jon whipped his head towards him. “What is it?”

“Just stay there. The light is good.” He held up his phone and opened the camera.

“Martin,” he complained.

“Shut up and look at the water. You don’t even have to do anything. Pretend to brood.” 

Jon reluctantly did as he was told, turning his head back out to the river and attempting to affect a casual expression. He managed to keep a straight, candid face for all of three seconds before he cracked into a small smile, no doubt feeling absurd for posing. 

“Are you done?”

“Yes,” Martin said, starting to swipe through the shots. He held out the best one for Jon to see.

“That’s me, alright,” he said, unenthused. 

Martin beamed down at his phone and then at the man himself. “You’re so beautiful.” Jon rolled his eyes and turned his blushing face back toward the water. He scrolled through the photos once more. “God, I love you in that coat.”

“Just in this coat?” 

“Yes, actually,” he said. “All other times, I barely tolerate you.” 

Martin stashed his phone away and returned his arms to the railing, pressing the side of his shoulder flush against Jon’s. 

“You know, I just really can’t believe it,” Jon said, softly, reverently. 

“Can’t believe what?”

“All of it. That we survived, we’ve been… better, and it’s been a whole year since, and...” He paused, but continued to stare straight ahead. “And you. I get to be with you. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Martin bumped his shoulder. “I don’t expect I’ll get tired of you any time soon.”

“Even when I’m not wearing this coat?” 

He gave a belaboured sigh. “It takes a bit more effort, but yeah, even then.” 

Jon hummed a small laugh. Martin wrapped an arm around his back and pressed his lips to his temple, and Jon leaned into it with a sigh. He then turned his head to capture Martin’s lips with his own in a tender kiss, and when Martin closed his eyes, the city around them, the traffic crossing the bridge, the pedestrians, the quiet lap of the water below, it all disappeared for an instant. 

There was a duality to Jon when it came to words. Sometimes he was an articulate, brilliant pedant, sometimes he stumbled through winding, fractured run-on sentences only to barely reach a comprehensible point. The latter often occurred with matters of the heart, which frustrated Jon to no end. It warmed Martin just as much, if not more, than if Jon was prone to spouting well-crafted poetry to tell him just how he felt. 

Jon’s touch, though, was always succinct. 

Their first day in Scotland, Jon told him that he’d never been one for casual touching, a warning born out of a fear of inadequacy that Martin quickly dispelled. He had taken this to mean he shouldn’t expect Jon to initiate much physical affection, but he was immediately proven wrong each day as Jon proceeded to reach for his hand whenever they went out walking, or lay his head in Martin’s lap on the couch, or reach over and brush hair from his face as they sat at the rickety little kitchen table. 

“Do you know,” Martin had pointed out. “Last week, you said you don’t like casual touching but you do it all the time. Which is fine, of course. I just want to make sure you’re not doing it because you think you’re supposed to.”

Jon looked taken aback. “I--I didn’t mean to say I don’t like it. I meant I don’t usually have anyone in my life I’m comfortable touching often, or that I’m drawn to be physically intimate with,” he explained, his brow furrowed in concern. “Does it--does it not feel genuine?” 

“No, it does,” Martin said immediately, because it was true. There had never been a gesture he doubted. “Of course, it does.” 

Martin soon came to understand that each graze of his hand over a shoulder, each small kiss pressed to knuckles… To Jon, it was all incredibly deliberate. When he didn’t have the words, or couldn’t find the space in his mind to piece them together in a way he saw adequate, he said what he wanted to say with a gentle hand and hoped that Martin understood. 

He’d like to think that now, he had a decent handle on interpreting the meaning behind each gesture, and was still getting better at it every day. This kiss, for instance, spoke of gratitude for the present, and of contentment and hope, and always, always of the incredulous love Martin saw behind his eyes every day. 

Jon pulled back slowly and brought a chilled hand to Martin’s equally chilled cheek. He gave a small smile that just touched the edges of his eyes, forming slight, sweet wrinkles.

“Happy anniversary,” he whispered.

“And some change,” Martin said. 

Jon huffed a fond sigh and dropped his hand. “We can’t do that for the rest of our lives. We’re going to have to pretend it was a nice round year.” 

“Well, next year it’ll have been a nice round year since today. It was just this first one that got all mucked up.”

“Fine.”

Martin wrapped him up in a tight embrace and Jon’s arms came to slide around his waist. He laid his head against Martin’s shoulder, continuing to look out at the river, Martin’s hand idly skimming up and down Jon’s back.

“Shall we find a place to warm up?” he suggested, but Jon held tighter.

“Just a minute.”

He chuckled. “Alright. You’re the one with ice for bones and no insulation, not me.” 

They rested in each other's arms another moment, breathing in the cold air that stung more and more as the sun set. Martin dropped a kiss to the top of his head. 

“The rest of our lives, huh?”

“Do you have alternative plans?” Jon drawled. 

“No, nope, it’s just nice when you say things like that.” 

“I like being able to say them.” 

“I love you.”

“I love you, darling,” Jon said, breathed out on a sigh. After a moment, he muttered, “Alright, I am starting to get a bit cold.” 

Martin unwound his arms with a knowing laugh. “That’s what I thought. Come on, let’s get you somewhere warm. What do you fancy?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rly wanted to have this done yesterday but was so sleepy lol


	22. i think i'll have your company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Georgie wants to get to know Martin better, and it makes Jon all too nervous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this takes place just a few months after the world is changed back

Jon walked into the living room, holding his phone like he’d never seen the thing before. “Georgie just asked me for your number.”

“Doesn’t she have a girlfriend?” Martin said idly, scooting over on the sofa to make a better spot for Jon to sit. He dropped right beside him with a scoff. 

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“Depends. Is Georgie interested?”

He could practically feel Jon roll his eyes though he wasn’t looking at his face. “Apparently, she wants to get to know you.”

“She--really?”

“I’m just as confused as you are.”

Martin let out a laugh. “I’m not  _ confused, _ just… surprised, I guess?” 

“Well, sure. I mean, not--not that she shouldn’t want to get to know you, but--”

“I thought she hadn’t really been talking to you much,” he said. 

“She hadn’t,” Jon said, his face falling a bit.

“Well, go on then. Give her my number.”

Jon gave him an odd glance. “Are you sure?” 

“What, should I not be?”

“No, no,” he sighed. “It’s fine.” 

Martin watched him send her his contact and stow his phone away hesitantly. By the time they got ready for bed that evening, Martin and Georgie had exchanged a few texts. 

“Georgie wants to get coffee,” he announced when he came into the bedroom. 

Jon looked up from his book perplexed. “What? Why couldn’t she just ask me?”

“I don’t… actually think you’re invited, Jon,” he said with a grimace.

Jon blinked at him. “Oh.”

“It’s like you said, she wants to get to know me.”

“But…” Jon said, slowly. “Without me there.”

“Sounds like it.”

“That can’t be good,” Jon said, rubbing lightly at his mouth. 

“What?” Martin laughed. 

“I don’t know. I mean, I’m sure it’s fine. When are you meeting her?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” he answered, slipping under the covers beside him. “Look, I’m sort of excited, Jon. She’s important to you. I want to get to know her, too.” 

“Yes, alright,” Jon said. 

Martin rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows, resting his chin in his hand like a teen at a sleepover. “What, does she have some incredible dirt on you that you’ve been hiding from me?” 

He huffed a laugh at this. “Probably.” 

“What is it? A goth phase? A metal band? A party phase?”

Jon gave him a disparaging look. “Do I look like I had a party phase?”

“You look more like you’ve never been to a party in your life.”

“Oh, that’s rude. I’ve been to parties  _ with  _ you.”

“Office parties don’t count.”

“I’ve been to parties,” he protested weakly. 

“What’s she got on you, then? If you don’t tell me now, she’ll just tell me later,” he teased, singsong. 

Jon shrugged and sank down into his pillows, rolling to face him. “Probably just more examples of my generally poor personality. As if you need more.” 

“I happen to love your generally poor personality.”

“And I think you’re genuinely the only person who could.”

Martin clucked his tongue and reached over to lightly shove at his side. “Oh, come off it with that. I don’t know what makes you think this is a planned character assasisination. My guess is she’s ready to try to reconnect a bit.”

Jon grumbled a nonverbal response.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “I’m… more than ready.” 

“Just worried it’ll be hard to prove yourself?”

Jon nodded. “Quite.”

The next day, Jon hovered around nervously as Martin got ready to leave to meet Georgie. 

“Feels like I’m about to go meet your mum or something,” he said, combing his fingers through his hair. Jon sat on the bed behind him, visible to his side in the mirror.

“She’s my ex, Martin,” he said with a scowl. “Though, I can’t say she hasn’t acted like my mother on more than one occasion.” 

“Well, why do I feel like I’m about to take a test of some sort? Checking up if I’m good enough for you or not?”

Jon laughed. “I promise, she’s more concerned if I’m good enough for you.” 

“What?”

“I just… get the idea she wants to gauge how much I’m dragging you down. Or something like that.” 

Martin furrowed his brow and turned around to face him. “Does she really think that of you?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “She hasn’t been… the biggest fan of me in recent years,” he said with a shrug.

Martin approached him and stood between his knees, resting his hands on his shoulders. “Look, you had a lot going on for a while that’s not going on anymore. I think she’ll be able to see you’re different.” 

Jon heaved a deep sigh. “I… I hope so. I expect I still have a ways to go before she really lets me in again.” 

Martin shrugged, gently rubbing Jon’s shoulders. “It’s the nature of it all, I suppose.” 

He nodded and slid his hands around Martin’s hips to rest around his back. “Is Melanie going to be there?”

“Not by the sound of it.”

“Well… Good. Can’t imagine she’s a great influence on Georgie’s evaluation of me.” 

“You really think this is all about you, huh?” Martin said with an amused grin.

The look Jon gave back was much more grave. “I really do.”

“What if Georgie does just want to get to know me? Have you ever considered I’m rather pleasant to get to know?”

“Oh, I know you are, firsthand,” Jon said. “But I also know Georgie, and I know she’d trust anyone else over me when it comes to… well, me.” 

“I’ll do my best to put in a good word.”

Jon followed to the door and Martin left him with a kiss as he made his way out.

Before they found Melanie and Georgie in the apocalypse, Martin had only met her once in passing at the Institute. At the time, he’d found himself irrationally irritated at her. He reckoned it was because she could have been standing by Jon’s side when he couldn’t, but she made a clear decision to leave him high and dry when he most needed a friend. He understood her rationale, of course, and he didn’t actually blame her for simply having the liberty to make a choice he didn’t. Still, she held a strange place in his mind, residual distrust still percolating since he hadn’t gotten much of a chance to know her further. 

Last month, Georgie had hosted a game night to get them all together, but other than that, Martin had barely spent any time with her, and certainly not one on one. He supposed he should feel a bit nervous, but somehow Jon’s nerves had dispelled his own for the most part. It was a bit funny how concerned Jon was about Georgie’s judgment of him going into this. Martin hadn’t mentioned it to him, but he was approaching this meeting with a few judgments of his own that he was hoping might get resolved. 

Georgie was waiting for him at a table at the cafe with a warm smile. He gave her a wave followed by a gesture to the counter and she nodded, understanding he’d join her after he ordered something to drink. He soon made his way to her table with a hot cup of tea. 

“Hey,” Martin said, with his most cheerful smile. 

“Hi,” she said. “Thanks for meeting me. I’m really glad we could do this.” 

“Me too,” he replied, settling into the seat across from her. “We haven’t gotten much of a chance to get to know each other without the world falling apart around us, huh?”

“I’m sure Jon thinks this is some sort of big investigation into his own conduct,” Georgie said, looking amused. 

“Oh, completely. You’ve got him terrified.” 

“Well, he’s not entirely wrong.”

“No?”

Georgie smiled a bit guiltily and shrugged. “I just… I know I’m hard on him, but I really do care about Jon a lot. And… I get the idea you’re really good for him. So I want to be friends.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Martin said, returning her grin. 

“I just think… After everything, I think we all need each other. But I want that to be a healthy thing.”

“I know what you mean,” he said. 

When they all got together at Georgie and Melanie’s place a few weeks ago, Daisy and Basira included, there was a sense of an odd, crucial bond shared between everyone in the room. They were all burdened with the knowledge of what had actually happened, but somehow, there was comfort in sharing the weight. Martin knew it was unequivocally important to preserve, but there wasn’t a very simple path to clearing the mess left behind by the last few years. 

“Jon really wants you in his life,” he told her, and she nodded.

“I can see that. And trust me, I want him there too, I just have to know he’s… actively trying to be better.” 

“You know, you could check up on him yourself,” Martin said, testing the waters of how candid he could get. He brought his mug to his lips with raised eyebrows. 

Georgie tilted her head looking mildly impressed, and Martin took this as an acceptance of his challenge. “You’re right. This was all a bit indirect, I know. But I do want to get to know you.  _ And _ I know you won’t lie to me.”

“You don’t know me very well, then,” he said, his mouth curled into a friendly smirk. 

She gave a surprised laugh. “Okay, that’s also true.”

Martin let his smile fade into something sincere. “He’s really doing his best. I mean, I don’t know exactly what went on between you, but… he’s free now, you know? He’s so much… lighter and… he’s not really used to it yet, but he’s getting there.”

Georgie nodded, taking a deep breath and shifting in her seat. “I just could see him on a path to self-destruction and I’ve gone there with him before. I didn’t want to do it again.” 

“I get it, I do,” he said. “But I think he’s starting to see that he’s, ah… He’s allowed to be happy. And it’s not as hard as he thought.”

“Okay. That’s… good,” she said, nodding and looking strangely at the table, maybe a mix of uncertainty and gratitude. She then shook her head, and placed her hands on the table decisively. “Well, enough about Jon. How have you been holding up?” 

As they talked, Martin found himself utterly unsurprised at how much he liked her. Georgie was funny, and he could easily see how she and Jon got along, could hear the small speech patterns and sensibilities of hers that were familiar in Jon as well. He smiled at these little relics of their bond, marks of the certain time their lives were intertwined, though they’d both stretched and grown in different directions since. 

Martin asked about her podcast, which he’d listened to some in the past and always enjoyed. He was glad to hear about how well Melanie was doing and their search for a new flat together since she’d simply moved into Georgie’s before. They were recovering from what transpired as much as anyone, but they were doing well, and Martin could see a familiar kind of love in Georgie’s eyes when she spoke about Melanie. 

When the conversation inevitably circled back to Jon, Georgie leaned back in her seat swirling around the dregs of her latte. 

“When he was staying with me, when he was… wanted for murder or whatever the hell it was, he talked about you so much, I thought you were the only other person he worked with for a bit.” 

Martin laughed. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s funny, because I thought he didn’t even know he liked me until way later.”

“Oh, he had absolutely no clue. It was sweet.”

Martin laughed again, hands closed around his nearly empty mug. “You know, for the longest time, he didn’t even know I had a crush on him.” 

At this, she leaned forward with wild eyes. “ _ You _ had a crush on him?”

“Oh, for years,” he said. “If you’d have seen me, you’d have known. I was kind of obvious.”

“Of course, he had no idea. Of course,” she said, shaking her head fondly. 

“He’s so smart, that one, and yet, also a bit dim.” 

“Tell me about it.”

“But god, I love him.”

“Does he love you?”

Martin blinked at her, briefly taken aback by her candor. It was the first thing she’d said all afternoon that actually sounded like a test, a question with a right and wrong answer. 

Good thing it was an easy one. “He really does. I never have to wonder.”

Georgie’s face bloomed into a satisfied smile and she nodded. “Yeah, I think I knew that. I just wanted to hear it from you.” 

Martin nodded as well and let a silent moment sink in. 

“So… did I pass?” he said eventually, veering back towards levity. 

She crossed her arms and let her head fall to the side. “I wasn’t  _ testing  _ you,” she said.

“Right, then. Did Jon pass?”

She laughed openly, as if she’d been caught. “Maybe. We’ll take it to the committee.”

“Is the committee just Melanie?” 

“That’s pretty much it.” 

“Well, I won’t tell Jon that. He’s worried enough as it is.”

“The Admiral gets a say, too.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Martin said. “Sorry to say it, but that cat loves Jon more than you.”

Georgie sighed miserably. “I know,” she said, a melodramatic lament. 

They walked together out onto the street after they returned their mugs. 

“Thanks again for this,” Georgie said before they parted ways. “I’m really, really glad he has you.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

*

Jon picked up his phone from the coffee table when it began to vibrate. “Georgie’s calling.”

“My test results are in, then?” Martin said.

“Mine, more likely.” 

Martin rubbed his hand down his back. “Jon, I really wouldn’t be worried.”

“We’ll see about that.” 

“Go, go pick up!” 

He jumped up and answered the call as he stumbled into the bedroom to pace around. 

“Hello, Georgie.” 

“Jon, he’s so good.”

He smiled fondly at the floor. “I’m well aware.”

“Really, he’s so sweet and funny, and…”

“And deserves far better than me? I’m aware of that, too.”

“No,” Georgie said, almost scandalized. “No, Jon. I think he’s perfect. For you.” 

Jon stopped pacing. “You do?”

“I think you’re really good for each other.”

That wasn’t what he expected to hear. “Thank you, Georgie. That really… means a lot, coming from you.” 

“I just wanted to say I’m really happy for you. And I’m sorry for this weird little stunt, I just wanted a chance to get to know him on his own.”

“Understandable.”

“I know he takes care of you, so take care of him, Jon.”

“I do my best,” he said. 

“You know what? I can tell.” 

Jon sat down on the edge of the bed. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” he said, at a mild loss for words. “Thank you.”

A brief, easy silence allowed Jon to gather up a bit of confidence. 

“I’d… really like to spend more time with you, Georgie. With both of you, if Melanie can stand it.”

“Come on, she was well behaved when you were here.” 

He chuckled. “She was.”

“And so were you.” 

Jon scoffed at this. “Oh, thank you. You know, before Martin left, he said he felt like he was about to meet my mother and I’m starting to get the same feeling.”

“Sorry,” Georgie said, a bit embarrassed. She then took on a slightly more matronly tone. “You know I just want what’s best for you.” 

“Oh, stop that,” Jon said, mildly horrified. 

She laughed. “No, but seriously, Jon. I’d like to catch up. And I want to spend time with you and Martin, I really do.”

“So does this mean I’m invited to your next rendezvous?”

“I suppose,” she sighed. “As long as he’s still just as charming with you around.”

“I suspect even more so. I think you’ll find how much he teases me  _ incredibly _ charming.” 

“I already do,” she said. “How about the two of you come for dinner sometime soon? Next weekend, maybe?”

Jon smiled, feeling suddenly warmed to the bone. “I’m sure that works for us.”

“Great, we’ll see you then.” 

Jon must have been still wearing a pleased smile when he came back to join Martin in the living room. 

“Went well?”

“Yeah,” he said, a bit incredulous. He returned to his seat beside him.

“Told you.” 

“You did,” Jon said, reluctantly.

“What did she say?”

“She wants us to come for dinner next week,” he said. “And… she wants to catch up. I think she sounded… proud of me?” 

“Growth!” Martin said, squeezing his arm dramatically. “Communication! Look at that, isn’t it unbelievable?” 

“Yes, yes, alright. I assume this was the result of some expert misdirection on your part.”

Martin gave an exasperated sigh. “Jon, would you just give yourself some credit?”

“I’d rather you take it.” 

“Say it with me. ‘I’m working very hard to better myself--’”

“Martin, I’m not doing this.”

“‘--and the people who care about me can see that.’ You didn’t say it!”

“Stop it,” Jon said, climbing over and straddling his lap, tossing his arms around Martin’s neck. 

“No, repeat after me. ‘I’m--”

Jon silenced him with a kiss. Martin resisted and tried his hardest to repeat his ridiculous little affirmation exercise, but Jon followed his lips relentlessly with his own until he gave up. 

“Thank you,” Jon whispered. “Really.” 

“I just met with your friend,” Martin said. “It really wasn’t the big testimonial you think it was.”

Jon shook his head and squeezed affectionately at the back of Martin’s neck. “But it was, to some degree. I just… I feel like if Georgie can see that you, of all people, could be happy with me, then… Maybe I have changed just a bit.” 

Martin squinted at him. “What does that mean, ‘me, of all people’?”

“You’re so good.” Jon pressed his lips to his forehead, lingering there for a moment, and Martin giggled. 

“Come on, Jon. It’s not like that.” 

He moved to lean his forehead against Martin’s. “It is to me,” he muttered. “Georgie said it, too.”

“Yeah, I doubt she meant it in the big black-and-white morality way you mean.” 

Jon laughed. “Are we going to sit here arguing over who deserves praise all night?” 

“We could,” Martin said, oddly shifting Jon around in his lap for a moment. Before he could realize, Martin rose to his feet with his arms firmly fixed around Jon’s lower back. “Or, I could carry you to bed.” Jon began spluttering a string of nonsensical exclamations even as his legs involuntarily clung to Martin’s sides. 

“Absolutely not--put me down,” he insisted, but Martin simply chuckled and started walking towards the bedroom. “Now, this is morally reprehensible.” He put up enough of an ungainly fight to get his feet on the ground before they made it through the doorway. 

“You’re no fun,” Martin said with a pout as he corralled him backwards into the room.

“Georgie will be disappointed to learn that fact hasn’t changed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my personal favorite thing about being queer is being best friends with my ex so needless to say i love jon georgie friendship 
> 
> does the rule of threes apply to martin picking Jon up and carrying him around   
> If so i have one more shot at it


	23. there’s a road left behind me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even decades on, the guilt still grips Jon if he lets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: intense self loathing, mentions of hospitalization & implied self harm (a background character) 
> 
> this one is sad and bad, folks - optimistic ending though don’t worry
> 
> Ellen is 17-ish here

Jon promptly fell back onto the sofa when he got home, unable to do much but stare straight ahead and let all the noise roil in his mind. He had just about two hours before Martin came home, two hours to shove it all down and smooth ambivalence over his face. He’d talk to him about it tomorrow. He just wanted to sleep tonight. 

“Dad?” 

Ellen stood in the living room door, having just changed out of her school uniform and into sweatpants for the evening. She looked at him with concern, but all he had to do was push out the right words. “Hello, darling. How was your day?”

“It was fine. Are you okay?” 

“Yes,” he breathed, attempting a smile. “Just fine.” 

She casually leaned her shoulder against the doorway, eyeing him suspiciously. “You don’t… look fine?”

“I’m just exhausted. Long day, that’s all.” 

Ellen took a few more tentative steps toward him, stopping before the couch. 

“Do you want to… talk about anything?”

He looked up at her, half-stunned that she asked, thinking miserably that it shouldn’t be her job to worry. It was supposed to be the other way around. 

“I had a difficult conversation with a student today,” he explained. “It’s been weighing on me a bit.”

She nodded, looking like she expected him to go on. He couldn’t bring himself to get into specifics, but he offered a bit more. 

“He came to me at lunch because he’d been late with an assignment and wanted to make it up. He, ah… broke down a bit and told me the reason he’d missed it was because his mother was in the hospital.”

“That’s terrible,” she said, sitting down beside him. “What, er--is she okay?” 

“She’s in a psychiatric ward,” he said softly. 

Ellen gave a slow nod. “Oh,” she said, and he saw the layers of meaning wash over her face as she understood what made it so personal. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

He laughed, a sickened, dismal thing. “I’m not the one suffering.” 

She leaned her head on his shoulder and he couldn’t help but melt into it, throwing his arm around her back and pulling her close. 

“Can we--I’m sorry to do this to you,” he said. “But do you think we could not mention this to Dad? At least for now?”

Ellen looked at him uneasily. “I mean, yeah, but…” 

“I know,” he said. “I know, I--I just don’t want to get into it at the dinner table or something like that. I’ll talk to him about it, just--not tonight.” 

“Okay,” she said. “No worries, Dad.” 

As Jon should have expected, it proved to be much harder than that. Martin had an uncanny sense for his feelings and no doubt picked up on his strangeness the second he walked in the door to find him in much the same position Ellen had. He had at least bothered to busy himself with some work since then. Martin waited until they were nearly finished dinner to ask. 

“Are you alright, love?”

Jon nodded, not meeting his eye. “Yes, yes. Just a bit tired tonight.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could tell Ellen glanced up at him, but she respected his wishes and kept quiet. 

His reluctance to elaborate was enough to convince Martin to drop it, and for that Jon was grateful. 

He just wanted to sleep. Maybe his mind would reset and in the morning he wouldn’t feel so sick. Then, he could tell Martin everything and he’d hold him and soothe him with sweet words and maybe, just maybe, Jon would feel like he deserved it a little bit. 

He got ready for bed quietly, subtly avoiding getting caught alone with Martin for a moment too long. He slipped under the covers and turned on his side, facing away from Martin’s still empty spot. Martin mercifully continued to afford him the silence up until he was standing by his own side of the bed, hovering over before getting in. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” 

Jon had been dreading that, the moment Martin pushed one more time and he’d stumble out of his hiding spot before he was ready. He thought he’d almost gotten away without it, at least for tonight. The thought of Martin offering sweet, unconditional sympathy made his stomach turn but something in him also craved it, knew how and where to get it in great abundance. If he opened his mouth now, it would all come spilling out. Maybe it should. 

He turned over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Martin sat with one leg folded up on the bed, the other still on the floor, looking down at him and waiting patiently.

“A student came to me at lunch today,” he began, and he told him everything in far more detail than he shared with Ellen earlier. 

“This is the third time his mother’s been hospitalized,” he told him. “He didn’t give details, obviously, but she experiences hallucinations of what she--of where she was during--”

“Yeah,” Martin said.

“She thinks she’s still there sometimes, and she tries to--” His breath caught on a lump in his throat, and he shook his head. “He asked me if I was still affected by what I saw,” he said with a disgusted laugh. “I had to give him some vague bullshit of an answer.”

“That’s a lot to take in, love,” Martin said, and the warmth in his voice was so very wrong, so very misdirected and unearned and he wasn’t sure he could take much more of it. 

Jon shot up to a sitting position and grabbed at his own hair, his head ducked down toward his knees. “I’m--I’m just so… It makes me sick that he doesn’t know it’s my fault.” 

“Oh, Jon,” Martin said, reaching towards his shoulder. Jon briskly pulled away. 

“No,” he said, too sharp and hostile. “Don’t--I just--” Martin drew back and Jon hated how afraid he looked, like he was scared not of Jon, but that this moment could cross a dangerous line and probably already had. Still, he couldn’t maintain the dam holding back the rage he felt, burning at his brain and buffeting against the walls, begging to be let out. 

“I don’t know what makes me think I’m allowed to just forget,” he spat. “That everyone around me is constantly grappling with scars from what I did and I’m just walking around, teaching their children, pretending I’m _just another victim like them_.” 

His voice had reached a shout and Martin held up a hand in warning. “Quiet, Jon. She can hear you.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I hate that you’re feeling this way,” he said gently, pointedly keeping his hands folded in his lap.

“You shouldn’t,” Jon said. Trying to keep his voice down proved to only turn his words to a seething mutter. “How can you--how can you _live_ with me knowing I--knowing what I did. To the entire world, Martin. You saw it all.” 

Martin stared at him quietly for a moment, his mouth hanging open slightly. “Jon, you haven’t talked like this in a long time.” 

“That’s because it’s _so easy_ to pretend,” he cried, losing control of the volume of his voice again. “I--I get lost in our happy little life and it lets me forget I’m a monster masquerading as a father and a husband and a teacher, and if I forget that, then--”

“Do you really think you haven’t earned this?” Martin said softly. “Our life?” 

“How could I have?”

“You don’t think you suffered enough to make up for everything, if there were actually any balance or justice in the world that worked like that?” Martin said, sounding incredulous. 

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “It just feels so wrong to forget.” 

Martin stared straight ahead for a moment, looking as if he was making some sort of calculation. One of his hands reached down and smoothed over the duvet, and Jon knew he wanted more than anything to be soothing him with that caress. Martin shook his head and looked at him. 

“Jon, you _also_ stopped it. We stopped it. If we hadn’t, all those people would _still be there_ , or they’d be dead and gone, extinct, and--”

“Does that really matter?”

“I don’t know, Jon,” Martin said, an exasperated whisper. “It does if you let it. It matters to me.” 

There were too many thoughts, far too many voices screaming for Jon to sort through but one cut through clearest, the one that insisted Martin was the antithesis of himself in that he was good, the only reason Jon ever managed to do anything good, things he wouldn’t have done without Martin’s light guiding him. 

“I’d have never stopped it without you,” he said. “I might still be sitting, rotting in that cabin or who knows where, letting it all burn--” 

Martin threw his hands up and stood, growing infuriated in that way that never seemed to be actually directed at him, even when it should be. “Jon, we are so far past the what-ifs. It doesn’t matter what you might have done or not if it was different. Here we are! How does it serve anyone to--to self-flagellate like this? It doesn’t change what happened. No one knows you’re serving your proper penance by hating yourself. It only hurts you.” 

“Good.”

He immediately regretted saying it. He didn’t even mean to, really, it just slipped out of his mouth like a curse. Martin’s eyes filled with tears and he slapped a hand across his forehead, inhaling a rough breath and letting it out as a shaky sigh. “Don’t say things like that, Jon, please. I hate it.” 

He wanted to say he was sorry, but he couldn’t.

“You know what does serve people?” Martin burst out, throwing his hands out wildly and breaking his own request to keep their voices down. “You, talking to a kid who needs a shoulder to lean on while his mother is struggling. It’s not like this is the first time. You’ve been teaching for nearly twenty years, how many kids have you helped and listened to and--and come home and _cried_ for, for god’s sake? You are not a monster, and the--the semantics of whether you once were or not? I just don’t care. It doesn’t matter. You’re not now, and that’s not my opinion. It's a fact.” 

His words hung in the air and slowly melted over the mess in Jon’s mind, some sliding right off but some managing to seep in. All he could do was shake his head. It was less a denial and more out of desperation, trying to signify that there was nothing he could say to that at the moment. 

Martin folded his arms up close to his chest and looked at him with his head tilted in pity. “Jon,” he said, nearly a question. 

“What?”

“D’you think… Have you ever thought about going back to see someone? To talk?” 

He sighed, leaving a drawn out silence before his answer. “Yes.”

Martin nodded, looking a bit relieved. “Maybe we’ll look into that this week?”

“Alright.” 

When his therapist retired just a few years ago, he’d felt comfortable enough at the time to not seek out someone new. It was easy to convince himself it wasn’t necessary, that he’d done it for so long, he should be fine by now. Leave space for someone else who needed it more than himself. Maybe he needed that outlet back, for precisely times like these when his self-loathing threatened to detonate in Martin’s hands, wounding them both. 

Martin stood staring at him like he was searching for the right thing to say. They were both then distracted by a presence in the still open door.

“Dad?” 

Ellen hovered in the doorway with tear streaks down her face and Jon’s heart plummeted all over. He instinctively reached toward her and she barrelled in and onto the bed, crawling into his lap as much as she could at her age. She could hear everything. Of course, she could, with this house’s thin walls. 

“I’m so sorry, Ellen,” he said, squeezing back automatically. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that.” 

“No,” she said desperately, her head ducked to his shoulder. “No, I just don’t--I don’t want you to feel like this.”

Jon stared straight ahead at the wall, running his hand down her messy hair and cradling her head to his shoulder. He could feel her words ever so slightly beginning to stifle the roaring blaze in his mind, quelled by something so simple as the love of his daughter. 

“I just--you always tell me to go easy on myself, but you don’t even do it,” she mumbled. 

He shook his head, avoiding Martin’s gaze. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“I just want you to be okay, Dad. Please.”

“I--I am, darling,” he said. “I don’t want you to worry about me like this.” 

She didn’t say anything back, just clung tight to his neck and then released him, sitting back and looking at him with a crumpled face. 

“I’m… I’m alright,” he said, pulling the words out of himself painfully, desperate to mean it. “Go on and go to bed. You don’t have to worry about me, I promise.” 

She nodded and hugged him once more before slowly making her way back to her bedroom, her hands twisted together inside the ends of her sleeves. Martin crossed the room to softly close the door behind her. 

“Don’t you see how she loves you?” he said gently. 

“Yes,” Jon said, at a loss for anything else.

Martin held out his hand gesturing in the direction of Ellen’s bedroom. “All she knows is everything you’ve ever done for her as her dad. That’s all you are to her, not any of what came before, no matter how much we tell her.” 

Jon bit down on his lip, trying to keep tears at bay. 

“I love you _with_ knowing all that stuff, by the way,” he said, arms still crossed defiantly. “Loved you then, too.” 

Jon took a deep breath and raked his hands back through his coarse, grey hair. “It just sometimes feels like I got off scot free.” 

“Well, no,” Martin said. “You didn’t, because you’re still torturing yourself for it all these years later. If you feel like you deserve to have suffered, then god, Jon, you’ve suffered.”

A noise like a sob escaped his chest and Martin slowly moved back to the bed, crawling onto his own side without another word. He laid down facing Jon, lifting his arm to create a spot for him. “Come here?”

Still a bit reluctant, Jon sank down into his arms and they wound around him with a crushing fervor. He burrowed his face into Martin’s shirt, taking several drawn out breaths as familiar, gentle fingers reached up and combed through his hair. 

“I love you so much, Jon,” Martin said, solemn and true, with a slight shake of his head. “Nothing is ever going to change that.”

He gripped a handful of worn fabric at Martin’s chest. “I’m so sorry. I thought--I thought if I could just sleep on it, I wouldn’t feel so strongly tomorrow, and--I’m sorry.”

Martin sighed and the hand in his hair unfurled to cup the curve of his skull. “Maybe that would have been true, but it’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Jon reached his arms up to cling around Martin’s neck. He always felt so small wrapped up in Martin’s arms, and it was a strange comfort. It made him feel delicate and harmless, bundled in a soft shroud that would protect him at all costs and love him endlessly. 

“You’re not a monster, my love,” he whispered into Jon’s hair. “I could give you hundreds, if not thousands, of concrete examples why not, but I don’t think you’d be very interested in hearing them right now.” 

Jon managed a weak smile, hidden in Martin’s neck. “Yes, please don’t.” 

“I won’t,” he said, pressing a kiss to Jon’s head. “Just know I have them on deck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes the level of fluff i write feels unrealistic, and sometimes i think about the dark moments that still pop up for them, even this far down the road  
> life is messy, brains are messy  
> those voices that try to tell us what we don’t deserve are just voices, not authorities 
> 
> hope ya all take care of yourselves and i appreciate all the nice things you say so deeply


	24. grooves between your hands, your teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gives into a moment of pure infatuation and makes an afternoon drive a bit more interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a super short little moment with no plot whatsoever, to make myself feel better about last chapter lol 
> 
> this takes place somewhere in the first year after the apocalypse

“Martin,” Jon said, eyes fixed straight ahead as Martin drove along the motorway. They were setting off on a brief getaway, heading towards a small cottage in the South Downs they’d booked for the weekend.

“Yes, love?”

“Have you ever snogged someone in the backseat of a car?” Jon asked, innocently enough.

“Yes, I have,” Martin said, with an audible smile. “Why do you ask?”

Jon kept his gaze on the road ahead of them. “I haven’t and I was wondering if you’d like to change that.”

“What?” Martin laughed. 

“Would you like to pull off and kiss me in the backseat of this car?”

The moment of silence broke Jon’s stoic expression and he smirked a bit. Then, Martin said, “Obviously.”

Jon could barely contain his own amused giggle as Martin began searching for the next ramp that would take them off the motorway.

It was a stroke of miraculous luck that the road he’d chosen took them directly to an unpopulated, tree-lined road in the middle of nowhere and before long, Martin was pulling up behind what looked to be a long-abandoned shack at the edge of an empty meadow. 

The second he turned the car off, he was out the door and making his way to the back while Jon elected instead to simply crawl over the center console into the backseat.

“Did you just climb back here?” Martin asked incredulously when he closed the car door behind him. 

“Yes.” 

“You tiny little--” And then Jon was on him, stretched out along Martin’s body and pressing him up against the car door, attacking his lips with his own. Martin needed no time to catch up, immediately wrapping Jon up in his strong arms and slipping down until they were mostly lying across the backseat. 

“Where did all this come from?” Martin managed to ask between hungry kisses. 

“I was just thinking,” Jon answered, pushing his fingers into Martin’s hair and pulling back gently, imploring him to offer up the soft skin of his neck. He began grazing lightly at different spots with his teeth only to follow his own tracks with warm, laving kisses, grinning at the desperate sounds he pulled from his love’s throat. 

“Jon…” he muttered, tightening his hands around Jon’s back. 

“Yes?” he said, directly into Martin’s skin, followed by another playful nip.

Martin gasped. “This was a very good idea.”

Jon hummed a low, mischievous laugh and not a moment later, he was being manhandled into Martin’s lap as he sat them up in the middle seat, Jon’s knees bracketing his hips. Martin sucked Jon’s bottom lip between his and dragged his teeth across it, eliciting a prolonged, muffled groan. He wondered if Martin noticed how he couldn’t stop smiling even when his mouth was otherwise occupied.

They kissed until Martin pulled back, breathless, and Jon took the opportunity to return his mouth lower, kissing down his throat and tugging at his collar to expose more skin, revealing a patch he could keep hidden should Jon decide to leave a lingering mark. He did just that and Martin’s fingers slid just under Jon’s jumper to dig into his bony hips. 

“Jon,” he whined, high and reedy, and Jon pressed a gentle kiss to the bruise he’d just created. 

“Beautiful,” Jon said, lacing his fingers into Martin’s hair to push it off his forehead. “Just unbelievably beautiful.”

Martin laughed, breathy and a bit unhinged, and leaned his head back against the seat. Jon wasn’t about to give him too long to catch his breath, though, and chased after him with more insistent kisses.

Jon sometimes tried to make a point of practicing spontaneity. He relished in surprising Martin whenever he could, loving so dearly the look on his face when he caught him off guard with a last minute plan or a treat to share that he picked up on his way home. Sometimes, like today as he sat staring from the passenger’s seat at the way sunlight and shadows played over Martin’s placid, lovely face, he’d be gripped by an overwhelming gratitude for such moments and feel a crucial need to let Martin know. He still operated a bit off the latent fear of a ticking clock, that if he didn’t take advantage of every moment they had, something could snatch it right out of his fingers while he wasn’t paying enough attention. So he did his best to always be rapt, to recognize those moments that he never expected would be so abundantly his.

Eventually, their fervor melted into tenderness and urgency gave way to languor. Jon let Martin lazily lower him down along the seat and drape across him, one leg propped on the floor to accommodate for his height and bulk. Martin protected the back of Jon’s head with a wide hand, cushioning him against the hard plastic of the door where he rested against it. Their lips barely lost contact while they made the maneuver and Jon sighed happily when Martin melted into him, engulfing him entirely in his arms. 

They’d devolved to sweet little pecks, growing slower by the second. Jon pressed his lips soundly to his forehead and then Martin let his head fall into the crook of Jon’s neck, his easy breaths puffing against his skin. They laid like that for what felt hours but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Martin soon lifted his head up to gaze at him, looking sated and desperate and intoxicated all at once. Jon let out a contented hum, staring into his warm, wondrous eyes and combing his fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. 

“Well, that was fun,” Martin said, breaking into a euphoric grin. 

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Is it over?” He tugged Martin’s head down for another long, lingering kiss. Martin chuckled into it and then pulled back reluctantly. 

“We should be getting on.”

“We probably should,” Jon muttered, petting his full, dimpled cheek. “Do you want me to take over driving?” 

“That’s alright, love. I’m good to keep going.”

“Good,” Jon said. “Because I rather prefer staring at you while you’re too focused on the road to notice.” 

Martin let out a surprised laugh. “You’re in quite a mood today, aren’t you?”

“What can I say? It’s nice being in love.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not kissed anyone in a full year and i am yearning can you TELL


	25. oh, darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon begins using a term of endearment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is set idk, maybe like 6 months after the apocalypse?

“Martin, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, love.” 

Jon fidgeted with the edge of Martin’s collar as they laid in bed wrapped up together, Martin encircling him with his arms and holding him close. “What would you say if I… if I started to call you ‘darling’?”

“I’d probably die on the spot,” he said, matter-of-fact. 

Jon breathed out a laugh. “Maybe not, then.” 

“No, I mean--” Martin pulled back a bit so he could see Jon’s face. “Where did this come from?”

Jon continued to look down at his own fingers tangled in Martin’s t-shirt with that pinched expression he got when he was fighting to find the right words before he opened his mouth. 

“I’ve never, ah--I’ve never called anyone something--something else like that. I always thought names like that were a bit stupid, but the way you call me ‘love’ has always--it’s nice. It--it makes me feel very loved and I want to give you the same in return.”

“Jon,” he said. “You don’t have to come up with a pet name just because I have one for you.” 

“I know I don’t have to. But I do want to, and… I wanted to warn you.”

Martin tried to stifle a small laugh. “To warn me?”

“Well, yes,” Jon said. “Don’t you think it would be rather jarring if I just started doing it when I never had before?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t make a plan to start calling you ‘love’, it just happened. I don’t want you to do something that feels unnatural for my sake.”

“No, see, Martin,” he said. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I think this is the only way it would work for me. If I tried to just say it out of the blue some time, I’d never actually--I just needed to tell you first before I tried something and it went horribly, that’s all.” 

Martin regripped his arms around him, looking down with great affection. “You’re worried calling me a pet name could go horribly?”

“Well, yes,” Jon said, as if this much was clear. “What if you didn’t like it, or--thought it sounded stupid coming from me, or insincere, or--”

“Jon,” he said. “I can promise you I’d never think those things, but now that you’ve told me, I can promise even more that I’d love it.”

“Alright,” Jon said, nodded briefly before nestling his head under Martin’s chin. “Alright.” 

The next morning, Jon sat at the kitchen table scrolling through emails on his phone when Martin set his tea down by his arm, accompanied by a kiss on the head.

“Thank you, darling,” Jon muttered absently in response. 

Martin froze, one hand still wrapped around the mug and the other resting on Jon’s shoulder. 

Jon looked up, clearly aiming to maintain a casual air but faltering, holding his neck at an odd angle. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

Jon cocked an eyebrow. “Do you like it? Is it alright?”

“Way more than alright,” Martin laughed. “That’s--I like that. A lot.”

Jon smiled, relieved and adoring. “Good.” 

It was sparing at first, as if Jon had measured out a precise quota or plotted a schedule by which he’d issue his endearments, no doubt out of a fear of overuse. For a while, this unpredictable yet highly deliberate usage brought Martin a thrilling chill each time, always quickly followed by a deep, melting warmth. 

Whenever Martin thought he’d heard every way the word could be said in Jon’s enchanting voice, it would then come bubbling up through laughter or leaking out of his lungs on a sigh. Each new cadence took his breath away for the briefest instant as if he’d forgotten Jonathan Sims loved him like that, forgotten that he, Martin Blackwood, was loved enough by someone to be called _darling_ in such a reverent tone, or such a joyous tone, or such a wistful one carrying with it the weight of a deeply entwined past. 

It was the casual ones that really got him, though, the ones where it seemed Jon hadn’t even noticed that he’d switched out Martin’s name. Those instances set Martin’s imagination alight with the visage of a far-flung future, so settled and comfortable, where those two fluid syllables sounded just as right and familiar as the two he was called by everyone else. 

The first time Jon said it in front of others, it didn’t go so well. 

It had been a lovely dinner at Georgie and Melanie’s flat, a raucous conversation filled with laughter, so normal in a way that had only just become dependable. Martin had remembered to take an antihistamine before they left, so he’d even dared to pull the Admiral into his lap despite Jon’s protests that his antihistamines only worked half the time. 

“You just want him to have one less lap to choose over yours,” Martin accused, and Jon didn’t totally deny it. 

When it had gotten late, they helped clean up and then made their way towards the door, Georgie and Melanie following to see them out. 

“Don’t forget your dish,” Georgie called, pointing to the serving plate Martin had brought appetizers on. 

Jon was in the middle of shrugging on his coat and nodded at the dish on the table, which Martin was in fact closer to. 

“Darling, can you grab that?”

Martin glanced at Georgie out of the corner of his eye as he turned around to retrieve it and saw the exact pleased little smile he was expecting. She at least had the respect to let it slide. 

Melanie did not. She slyly sidled up behind her girlfriend to get her taunt in before they escaped. “You know, Georgie,” she said, leaning in theatrically. “I thought my hearing was getting better these days, but I could have sworn I heard Jon call Martin ‘darling’ just now.” 

“Mel,” Georgie admonished. 

“Yeah, is it necessary to point out?” Martin said. “You’re going to scare him off it.” 

Jon balked at this. “She will not,” he protested. “As if a snide comment from Melanie is going to stop me from--” He paused and diverted his eyes. “From calling you that.” 

Martin’s eyes widened and he pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Look, you already can’t say it again in front of her!” 

“That’s not true, I can, _darling_ ,” he said, this time in a harsh, haughty tone that actually made Martin laugh.

“No!” Georgie whined. “Say it nice like you did before. I’m sorry Mel’s mean. Never mind her.”

Melanie shrugged, fully pleased and showing no remorse. 

Jon spluttered for a moment, throwing up his hands. “Well, why would I do it on the spot like that? This is ridiculous.” 

“Lay off him,” Martin said, but Jon suddenly postured to snap at him for coming to his defense. 

“You don’t need to-- _ugh._ ” He let his shoulders slump and turned away towards the door. “Can we go?” 

“Yes, love,” Martin said, turning his covert amused smile back towards Melanie and Georgie with a final nod in thanks for the evening. 

They walked in silence for the first block or so, until Jon risked a glance over at him. 

“Are you laughing at me?”

“I’m not laughing! Just--smiling,” Martin said, not quite attempting to wipe it off his face.

“Well, stop,” Jon said. “I feel foolish enough.” 

Martin sighed and let his shoulders slump. “Jon, everybody calls their partner by pet names in front of other people,” he said. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed of.”

“Not everybody.”

“Well, no,” Martin said. “And that’s fine, too, if you don’t want to do that in public. I’d never think anything of it. That’s your choice.” 

Jon groaned. “But that’s not it. I do, it just--I was dreading that, the first time I did it, because I knew they’d--” He cut himself off with a miserable sigh. 

“Look, Melanie was wrong to make fun of you,” Martin admitted. “But if that’s what you were dreading, then it’s over, right? That seal has been broken.”

Jon was quiet for a few paces. “I suppose you’re right about that.” 

Martin took his hand just as they arrived at the entrance to the Tube station. He pulled him aside before they descended to the platform.

“Seriously, Jon. If you would rather keep that private, you can. And if it slips out here and there like it did tonight, I’ll pretend nothing happened and defend you against anyone who doesn’t.” 

Jon looked down at their hands and laced their fingers together tighter. “I don’t want to keep it private. I just don’t want--look, I can take a lot of jokes at my own expense, but not when they’re about how I… how I express my love.” 

“That’s very fair,” he said with a nod. “And our friends should respect that. And they would, if you told them.” 

“Yeah,” Jon said. 

“If it happens next time, you can say something, yeah?” Martin offered, leading them onto the escalator. “But honestly, I bet Georgie’s already given Melanie a bit of a talking to. She’d have noticed how much it bothered you.” 

“You’re right,” Jon said, stepping onto the stair behind him. The escalator carried them downward a moment before he leaned toward Martin's ear and softly added, “You’re right, darling.” 

Martin turned around to meet Jon’s smile with his own, made level by the height difference of the steps. There was a reason Jon always made a point of getting on after him on the way down. Jon leaned in with ease and kissed him, no neck craning or tippy toes necessary. He pulled back with a small, tender grin.

“Turn around before you miss the step off,” he muttered, and Martin stole one more kiss before heeding his advice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had one upload heavy week followed by a week of NOTHING but I have some pieces on deck that just need finishing
> 
> my upload schedule is utterly unpredictable


	26. to be alone with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin loves to see Jon let loose just a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: smoking cigarettes, implied off-screen sex (but it is merely implied it can be read as not sex)
> 
> I don’t smoke but somehow wrote this ‘smoking is sexy’ propaganda 
> 
> don’t smoke cigarettes kids, but let jon have just one as a treat (to martin)

In crowded places, Jon often tried to take up as little space as possible and these days, that came in the form of wedging close to Martin's side until he slid an arm around his waist to steady him. That was how they found themselves now, tucked into a corner of a lively venue with the couple of Martin’s friends from work who had come to support their colleague Ciaran’s band. 

Jon had been mildly hesitant to tag along; such loud and bustling events didn’t sit so well with his senses these days. Martin assured him it was fine whether he wanted to go or not, but he was pleased when Jon ultimately decided it was easy enough to simply step out if it got to be too much. 

Ciaran’s band was rather good, at least Martin had thought so. Jon seemed about as impressed as Martin could expect of him, considering. He hadn’t made any disparaging comments yet, but there was always the possibility he was saving them for the privacy of their own home. He’d relaxed a bit since the set ended and the volume in the venue had been reduced to a comfortable buzz, albeit still loud. He honestly seemed to be enjoying himself, which brought a warm smile to Martin’s face. Before long, Ciaran joined them to thank them for showing up.

“This kind of thing used to really be my scene in university,” Jon said to the few of them huddled around a hightop table with drinks. 

Lena laughed. “I can barely imagine you listening to music, Jon.” 

“He speaks the truth. I’ve seen the pictures,” Martin said. “Ripped jeans and everything.” 

Lena’s mouth hung open. “No way.”

“I was twenty years old and not yet completely broken by the harsh reality of adulthood,” Jon lamented. 

“Anyone for another drink?” Lena asked.

“I’m actually gonna step out for a smoke before the next band comes on,” Ciaran said. Lena nodded, and scanned the group for nods only to find she was alone. 

“Well, I’ll be back, then,” she said, and made off for the bar. 

“Anyone else for a smoke?” Ciaran offered.

Jon laughed. “You know, I quit years ago, but this sort of atmosphere certainly makes it very tempting,” he said, glancing around the venue. “Not to mention the alcohol.” 

Ciaran nodded toward him. “Good on you, though. Can’t quit for the life of me.” 

There was a silent moment as Ciaran dug in his pocket for his pack and Jon stared strangely at his hand moving in his jacket. 

“Actually, would you mind if I bummed one?” Jon asked. 

“Not at all, mate,” Ciaran said. 

Martin tried to keep his mild surprise off his face. Every once in a while, Jon allowed himself to let loose in his own quiet way and he deserved that. Martin didn’t want to let any concern he might have get in the way of that. He had to at least try to trust Jon to take care of himself until he was proven wrong. 

“Martin?” Jon said. 

He shook his head at the offer, but quickly realized Jon was actually seeking his permission. “You don’t have to ask me, Jon.” 

“Just making sure you’re alright with it,” he said with a shrug.

“I’m glad to share but I hate to be an enabler,” Ciaran said as he finally wrestled the pack from his jacket.

“I’m fine,” Jon said, huffing a pitiful laugh. “Believe it or not, I’ve beat worse addictions.”

“I’ll trust you, then,” he said, and nodded his head towards the door. 

Jon looked over at Martin with an eyebrow raised, a silent invitation.

“I could use a bit of fresh air,” Martin said. Jon took his hand with a smirk and followed Ciaran to a door that released them into a narrow alley. 

As they talked, Martin watched the two of them smoke with his hands stuffed into his pockets, leaning against the brick wall with his shoulder. Ciaran was nice enough but Martin could tell Jon found him sort of dull, so he made an effort to keep up the brunt of the small talk, complimenting the set and asking about his history with the band. 

Before long, the thumping of bass started up again from inside and Ciaran tossed his cigarette away. “I’m gonna catch the beginning of their set. I’ll see you inside.” 

Jon held up his still burning cigarette. “Thanks again.”

“No problem, mate,” Ciaran said. He disappeared back into the venue and then, they were alone in the alley. 

Martin took in the visage of Jon, reclining back against the wall and bringing the cigarette to his lips. Something about it made him look particularly exquisite, dark-eyed and distinguished, disaffected and justifiably brooding. Jon exhaled a puff of smoke and then glanced over at him and smiled. 

Martin had a long history of finding himself attracted to things he probably shouldn’t. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, resting his head against the brick. 

Jon looked plaintively at the smoldering cigarette in his hand. “You have famously bad taste.” 

Martin shook his head disparagingly and crossed his arms. 

“I’m rather lucky for it,” Jon added.

“You bet you are,” Martin said, and they chuckled into an easy silence. “I haven’t smoked a cigarette since I was a teenager,” he said after a moment. “Only a few times. Just trying to be like the cool kids, and all that.”

Jon hummed a laugh, a small, warm smile spreading over his lips. “I don’t miss it, but it’s nice now and then.” 

“You know, I’ve always liked the smell of it, as gross as that is. Well, some brands, I guess. Probably because of some childhood memories or something,” Martin said, punctuated with a shrug.

Jon held the cigarette out to him and, almost sounding taunting, said, “Would you like a drag?” 

Martin peered at him through narrowed eyes, trying to suss out his game. He had a mischievous look about him that Martin was immediately inclined to indulge. He reached for the cigarette but just as he did, Jon pulled it back. 

“Come here,” Jon said, turning towards him and leaning his shoulder against the brick with his free hand held aloft as if for Martin to place his cheek in. He stepped as close as he could, laying his hands on Jon’s hips. Jon placed the hand on Martin’s face, his cold, lithe fingers gently spreading over his skin, and looked up into his eyes, a heavy-lidded, smoldering gaze as sharply fixed as always. He tugged gently so Martin bowed his head even closer. 

“All you have to do is inhale.”

Martin watched as he turned his head to take a final drag of the cigarette and then toss it to the ground. In a fluid motion, he then pulled Martin’s lips to his and breathed the smoke directly into his mouth. The pungent warmth crowded against his tongue and he somehow found the wherewithal to open his throat and inhale, choking only a bit. He nearly panicked but managed to keep his cool, even as Jon nipped gently at his lip when he pulled back. He turned his head to blow the smoke out away from Jon’s face, feeling warmed in not just his lungs but in the very pit of his stomach. 

When he looked back, Jon was wearing that small, smug grin that made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing. He stroked his cheek with his thumb and brought his other hand up to frame his face, pulling Martin into a bruising kiss and licking the taste of tobacco from his mouth.

Martin couldn’t have been more grateful to be alone in that alley as he let out a hopeless moan, briskly turning to crowd Jon up against the brick wall. Jon pulled back with a satisfied laugh, leaning his head back to get a good look in Martin’s eyes. 

“You’re doing that on purpose,” Martin muttered.

“Doing what?” Jon ducked his head to press his lips to Martin’s throat, paired with a gentle rake of teeth. 

“Being extremely--Jesus, Jon.”

“Extremely what?”

“Alluring. Sexy. You’re teasing me.”

“Now, why would I do that?” 

In lieu of an answer, Martin dove to kiss the smugness right off his lips and Jon responded by gripping the front of his jacket in both fists as if he could pull him any closer. Martin pushed the hair off of Jon’s neck and swooped down to kiss along his jaw and back to the spot just below his ear, pulling from him a low, satisfied hum.

Suddenly, someone opened the door to the alley and Jon whipped his head toward them. In the mere seconds before Martin could even get his wits about him to look, they said a surprised, “Oh!” and disappeared back into the bar. 

Jon laughed and threw his head back to the wall, a bit hysterical. “I think that was Lena.” 

“Looking for us?”

“Seemed like it.”

“Well, she found us,” Martin said, and Jon laughed an easy, fond chuckle. He then pulled their foreheads together by his grip on Martin’s jacket. 

“I think I’d like to go home now,” Jon said, capturing Martin’s eyes with his own. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.”

“You mean like--”

“Yes,” Jon said, kissing him thoroughly again, long fingers weaving into his hair to keep him there.

Martin pulled back just enough to breathe. “We’ve both been drinking.”

“It’s a long bus ride. We’ll sober up.” 

That was all the convincing he needed. Martin grinned. “Let’s go make our very obvious excuses, then.” 

When the bus came, they climbed up to the mostly empty top level and sat so close together Jon might as well have been on Martin’s lap. He threw an arm around Jon’s shoulders and one of Jon’s hands landed to rest in the middle of Martin’s thigh as the bus pulled away from the stop. Their new house was a bit farther away from most things than their old flat was, so they had at least half an hour to sit on this bus and resist being indecent. 

“You’ve done that before,” Martin said, not quite a question.

“Done what?”

“The smoke thing.”

Jon looked at him with a sheepish smile. “Not quite. Someone did that to me, a long time ago. In university. I always remembered it as being very… attractive.” 

“Well, you’d be right about that. I feel like it’s playing on loop in my head.” 

“Hm,” Jon said, sounding overly satisfied as the hand on Martin’s leg began to slowly caress. “I’ll have to remember that one, then.”

“God, alcohol turns you into such a flirt, you know that? I love it.”

“I love _you,_ ” Jon said, tangling his foot between Martin’s and winding his arms around his neck. He leaned over and pressed his lips to his jaw, leaving them there for a lingering moment before they began to roam.

“There are other people on this bus, Jon,” he complained, though doing nothing to stop him.

Jon sighed and relented, propping his sharp chin on Martin’s shoulder. “Barely. Probably seen worse on a night bus.” 

Jon managed to behave himself until they got to their stop, following incredibly close beside Martin as he led them to their stoop and fumbled with the key in the dark. The second the door shut behind him, Martin was being pressed up against it and kissed within an inch of his life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have just posted the words ‘i’m touch starved’ for the last three chapters and it would have achieved the same effect 
> 
> I also just really miss ever so mildly messy nights out….. shit  
> i mean not that this is very messy but this is about as messy as these two would manage to get


	27. we should live until we die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even on their wedding day, Jon fights with fear to seize happiness.

Martin hovered in the doorway to the bedroom, warmth blooming in his chest when he laid eyes on Jon standing in front of the mirror that hung above their dresser. 

Daisy and Basira had just arrived and were waiting outside in the car to take them to the courthouse, but he took a minute to silently watch Jon fiddling with his collar. He was utterly stunning, even with the passive scowl he regarded himself with, strong brow furrowed in something between frustration and unease. 

Jon finally let his hands fall and it was then that he noticed Martin was there.

“They’re here,” Martin said. 

Jon returned to staring at himself in the mirror. “I think I just… need a minute.” 

Martin had no real concerns about the possibility of Jon having second thoughts, but of course, there was an ever present, evil little voice in his head that repeated, _What if he is? Maybe he’s not ready. Maybe he’s not sure. Maybe he’s been pretending this whole time--_ But no, there was enough nervous excitement coursing through his veins today to ward those off for the most part. 

“There’s no rush,” Martin said, stepping a bit closer. “They can wait.” 

He came to stand just behind Jon, taking in the sight of them as a pair dressed so sharply. Jon’s gaze withered away from the mirror. 

“Martin, I--” He took a massive breath in and gently laid his hands down on the dresser to brace himself. “Martin, I can’t help but feel terrified.” 

He stilled behind him, his hand frozen halfway to the small of Jon’s back. He let it drop to his side to avoid adding any pressure to what Jon was feeling. Instead, he simply nodded. 

“Jon, it’s… You know, this doesn’t change much. Just a piece of paper and all that. It’s--it’s still like it always was. I know it feels like a… like a big commitment, but--” 

Jon’s eyes widened and he jerked his shoulders to look at him briefly, frantically, before turning back to the mirror and shaking his head. 

“No, no, for god’s sake, it’s not that. Martin, you must know--god, I didn’t mean to make you think--” He slapped his hand across his brow, letting it fall unceremoniously down the rest of his face. He stared down at an arbitrary spot on the dresser for a good moment before he finally whispered, “What if our luck runs out?” 

Martin took one step closer, but still kept his hands off just in case. “What do you mean?” 

All of a sudden, Jon closed his eyes with a miserable sigh and fell back against Martin’s shoulder. He needed no further invitation to wrap his arms around him, crossing his waist and tenderly tugging him close. 

“I mean, we’ve been… We’ve been so happy…” Jon said, just above a whisper. “Don’t you find yourself thinking of how many bullets we dodged and how improbable it is we keep dodging the next ones?”

Martin gave a pitying sigh and angled his head down to press his lips to Jon’s worried temple.

“You know,” he said. “I’d say a lot of those bullets actually hit us. We just survived.” 

Jon remained silent for a moment, but he soon found Martin’s eyes in the mirror. 

“What if that’s the big joke?” Jon muttered. “End the world, trudge through hell, put it back together, then the second we start thinking it’s safe to live, something just--gets in the way or--or takes you away from me, I couldn’t…” He shook his head lightly and let his eyes fall closed again, twisting his own arms tightly over Martin’s and holding on as if there was a danger he’d slip away. 

Martin stared at his beautiful face so marked by past pain and twisted in preemptive grief, searching for any way to keep that look off it for the rest of their wedding day. This wasn’t a new conversation. Jon struggled with this persistent fear of all the comfort and steadiness they’d built being torn out from under his feet and leaving him in a freefall. Martin understood, he really did. He just had an easier time digging his heels into the ground, determined to keep and hoard all the happiness they’d scrounged for themselves. 

It was, though, a bit of an inconvenient time to be having this conversation with their friends waiting outside to take them to get married. 

“So… not to go all therapy on you, but what do you think is bringing this up right now, in this moment?” 

Jon opened his eyes again and pinched a bit of the fabric of Martin’s sleeve between his fingers.

“I just remember when--” He cut himself off suddenly and snapped his mouth shut. “Oh, I got dangerously close to spoiling my vows just now.” 

Martin surprised himself with a laugh, made even more relieving by the slight curve it brought to Jon’s own lips. 

He continued, measured and precise so as to keep off the apparent vow territory, whatever it was. “The prevailing narrative around marriage is that it’s long. Or at least, that’s the goal. I think the potential comfort of relying on that is just… bringing along a lot of fear of losing it.” 

“Hey,” Martin said, pulling Jon around to face him. He cupped his jaw with both hands and tipped his head up to be sure he looked in his eyes. “Listen to me. This isn’t about promising each other sixty solid years of bliss, because yeah, we can’t be sure what’s waiting for us down the road. Nobody can. I don’t know about you, but I’ll take whatever we can get, no matter how long or short it is. Even one day married to you is a lot more than I’d have asked for a few years ago.”

Jon sighed and tilted his head, an adoring glaze falling over his eyes while his mouth remained pressed in a troubled line. 

“We take it day by day. We’ve always said that.”

Jon nodded, his eyes growing just a bit glassy. Martin dabbed at the corners of them with his thumbs. “Hey, don’t cry now,” he said. “It hasn’t even started yet.”

“I love you,” Jon whispered, controlling the waver of his voice with great effort.

“Exactly,” Martin said, letting his hands slide down to brace Jon’s shoulders. “We are getting married today because we love each other and we want to celebrate that. And, quite frankly, my job’s got good spousal benefits and yours are shit.” 

Jon gave an inevitable chuckle and it warmed Martin to the bone. 

“Day by day, alright?” 

Jon nodded and heaved a settling breath. “Is it bad luck or something if I kiss you now?”

“We’ve already kissed today. Several times,” Martin pointed out. 

“Well, yes,” he said. “But it feels different now that we’re all dressed up.” 

“I reckon if we’re not doomed yet, one kiss won’t be the nail in the coffin.”

Jon rolled his drying eyes and wrapped his arms around Martin’s middle, tipping his chin up to press their lips together. It was deep and earnest, even as they both took care to keep firmly out of the realm of precious. There was a time and place for that later.

Martin pulled back, smoothing down the front of Jon’s shirt where he’d just pressed against it. 

“Ready to go?”

Jon nodded. “We’d better, anyway.” 

Moments later, they were sliding into the backseat of Daisy’s SUV, a pleasant wave of jitters reclaiming Martin’s body and forcing out any lingering worry that Jon’s fear was for being with him, not losing him. 

“Is he already crying?” Basira marveled, catching a glimpse of Jon through the rearview mirror and turning around in the passenger’s seat. 

Jon swiped at his eyes. “Just a minor existential crisis averted, that’s all.”

“Sounds like a wedding day rite of passage to me. Look at me,” Martin said, reaching to pull Jon’s chin toward him. “We should have put something cold on your eyes to make them not so red, love.”

“What’s the use if he’s just going to be crying again in an hour?” Daisy said. 

“Why does everyone think I’m going to be unable to control my tear ducts all day?” Jon snapped. 

The car was decidedly silent for a moment, followed by Jon sinking back into the seat and muttering something that sounded like, “Christ, what have I become?” 

Martin chuckled and found his hand, lacing their fingers together in the seat between them for the rest of the ride. 

*

Later, Jon leaned against Martin’s shoulder on the little wicker loveseat that Georgie had thrifted for the occasion, set at the large folding table they’d borrowed from a neighbor. They watched the ongoings in the grass before them as Melanie enlisted Basira to take photos of her and Georgie, begging her wife after each set for verification that she looked hot enough for social media. 

Martin chuckled at the scene and Jon nuzzled into his shoulder, his boneless posture betraying the fact that he’d fully descended into cuddly drunk mode. He couldn’t have imagined a better way for the day to have gone, already sifting through each bit of it in his giddy, whirling mind. He ran back through the lovely words Georgie had said for them when she raised her glass in a toast, and the laughter filling their garden when Jon told them all how he caught himself from spilling an integral bit of his vows in his pre-wedding breakdown that morning. Apparently in his anxious daze, he’d nearly invoked the first moment he ever thought, “I’d like to live to see the chance to marry this man,” while staring at him sleeping beside him in the safehouse years ago, something he’d carefully woven into the vows he wrote for Martin for the ceremony.

“I don’t think I’ve ever smiled so much in one day,” Martin said, thoughtfully. “My face hurts.”

Jon hummed a laugh and craned up to press a loving kiss there, as if that would soothe his aching cheeks instead of simply making him smile more. Jon then sat up to grab his wine glass and drain it before setting it back on the table and turning resolutely toward Martin. 

“We’re going to be alright,” Jon said, sounding like he’d just decided so and was debuting his new, highly academic theory. 

Martin regarded him with amusement. “Yeah?” 

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sure we won’t always feel it but right now, I know it. For a fact. With my regular human brain and eyes.” He punctuated his declaration with a single nod. 

Martin giggled at him, leaning in to capture his gaze with barely an inch between their noses. “You know it with your eyes?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

Martin dipped in and stole a kiss, leaving behind another brilliant, dazed smile on Jon’s face. 

“What makes you so sure all of a sudden? What changed from this morning? Besides, you know--” He grabbed Jon’s hand and held it up between them, showing off their rings. “The obvious.” 

“Nothing,” Jon said. “And that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s just us, for however long there is. I’m not promising I’ll be good at it, but I would like to stop feeling like we’re living on borrowed time. No one ever said we were.” 

He patted Jon’s knee. “That’s it, you’re getting it.” 

“Getting what?”

“You’re getting the hang of not being such a cynical bastard. Though I have reason to believe there’s a bit of wine talking right now.”

Jon pointedly eyed the empty bottle in front of them on the table. “What would make you say that?”

Martin ducked forward and kissed him again, trading small laughs between their lips. They stared at each other for a long moment when they pulled back. 

Martin never quite understood what writers meant when they said that eyes sparkle, because they don’t, do they? But sometimes, he swore Jon’s came close. Maybe it was just the wine, or residual tears still lining his eyes, or the sheer fervor with which Jon looked at him always. He recalled something else Jon had said in his vows, which were so carefully crafted and concise to keep himself from getting too verbose. Among many things, Jon promised that whenever he laid his eyes on Martin, he could be sure he was beheld by nothing but a man who loved him more than words could account for. 

Somehow, he found the will to keep from crying again in the wake of this decadent cocktail of love and gratitude and the thrill of what lies ahead, his mind far too softened by wine to process it. 

“Hey,” Martin said. “I love you.” 

“And now, I’ve got a legal document to prove it,” Jon said. 

Martin laughed and Jon’s hand came up to cradle his cheek. 

“I love you, too,” he murmured, then adding in a reverent, disbelieving whisper, “My husband.” 

“God, that’s nice, isn’t it?” 

Jon pulled his face close to rest his forehead on Martin’s. “It really is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The haunting of bly manor may have seriously fucked me up a lot a bit and this feels somehow related
> 
> I highly recommend, i ugly cried for a collective two hours of it, like felt dehydrated for the rest of the night sort of cry


	28. we'll dance on the bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rough night of dreams for Martin leads to a cozy morning in bed with his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this feels very un-substantive but there were just some images I had bouncin around my head

Martin awoke to a gentle hand on his clammy face, heaving air into his lungs as small bits of reality set back and replaced the harrowing scenes he’d just been immersed in. There was barely a moment for his eyes to focus in the dark before the hand tore away from his cheek. 

“Shit,” he heard Jon say, and all too quickly it became apparent what had happened. Martin must have been shouting in his sleep loud enough to wake Ellen again. “I’m sorry, darling, let me get her.”

“No, yeah, go,” he breathed, trying to settle himself down and catch up to the moment as Jon wrestled out of the covers and bolted from the room. 

God, he hated when this happened. It was bad enough waking Jon and contributing to his perpetual sleep deprivation, but hearing their three year-old’s worried cries broke his heart and plummeted him into a spiraling shame. At least it immediately overwrote any remnants of whatever vicious horror he’d just been dreaming of. Now, all he could worry about was whether he should get up to help or just stay and wait. He settled for slumping back into the pillows and continued to breathe. It was only a few minutes before Jon appeared in the doorway, Ellen bundled in his arms. 

“See?” he said, running his hand up and down her back. “Daddy’s just fine. It was just a dream that scared him, but everyone’s safe and sound.”

She looked mildly convinced but said nothing for a moment, head ducked down on Jon’s shoulder while still surveying the room as if she might catch some lurking monster they’d missed. 

“Sleep with you?” she mumbled. Jon nodded and walked toward the bed, depositing her down on it. She clambered into Martin’s lap and he immediately engulfed her in his arms to hold her tight, desperate to chase away any fear he’d caused. Jon climbed back in right after her, slipping under the covers and scooting close to them. 

“Everything’s alright, little love,” Martin said. “I’m so sorry I scared you.” 

She looked up at him with wet, worried eyes. “You had a bad dream?”

He smiled down at her, soothing her creased forehead with a kiss. “Yeah, but it’s alright. I know it wasn’t real, and now you’re here making me feel better.”

Jon watched propped up on an elbow, reaching with his other arm to pet Martin’s leg, a consoling caress.

“Let’s settle down, okay?” Martin said, and Ellen nodded.

He guided her off his lap and laid back down, situating a pillow between them for her. As soon as Ellen flopped down onto it, she immediately clung to Martin’s arm and nestled close to him. He chuckled and reached to stroke her sleep-tangled hair. It was nice to think she might have gravitated towards him in an effort to comfort him from his nightmare, but they all knew it was because he was quite simply warmer and softer than Jon’s bony frame.

Jon carefully reached over the little body between them to cradle Martin’s face again.

“I’m sorry I ran off on you like that,” he said, gently stroking with his thumb.

Martin shook his head. “No, love, you couldn’t leave her crying. Don’t worry.” 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” he breathed. “It was, you know... Par for the course.”

It wasn’t long before small steady breaths began to huff out from Ellen’s nose, tickling Martin’s arm. Her grip slackened when she dozed off, so he carefully extricated his arm from her embrace and shoved it under his pillow, letting his free arm cross over her and land on Jon’s waist. Jon pulled that hand to his lips and pressed a series of kisses to his knuckles. 

“Sure you’re alright?” 

“Yeah, I promise,” he whispered back. “Just try and sleep.”

“Alright,” Jon said, setting his hand down and throwing his own arm over Ellen to card through Martin’s hair until he drifted off again.

Martin laid awake for quite a while after Jon’s hand stilled, his mind so graciously playing out winding, detailed paths of how waking up to her fathers screaming in the night could surely traumatize Ellen for the rest of her life. They did their best to keep the weight of their past off her, but Martin couldn’t help but find himself constantly fretting about the little things that bled in, the wounds that would be harder and harder to hide as she got older and smarter and more observant. 

He must have fallen asleep at some point, since he eventually woke what felt like minutes later to a bright, sunlit room. Ellen was still nestled under the covers but Jon was missing, and he wondered if he’d gotten crowded out by their little guest. She’d rolled over quite far into his spot.

The telltale scent of coffee traveled up the stairs, which Jon often brewed for himself when he needed to wake up with something stronger than tea. Soon, he heard footsteps climbing the stairs and Jon entered the bedroom with his hands full of two steaming mugs and a sippy cup tucked under his arm. When he noticed Martin was awake, his mouth curved upward.

“Morning,” he whispered, and Martin couldn’t help but return his warm smile.

“Morning, love.”

Jon dropped his mug on his own bedside table and then rounded the bed to Martin’s. He placed his tea down as well as Ellen’s cup and leaned over Martin, slipping his arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his lips, and then to his cheek, and then innocently to the soft skin below his jaw. 

“I hoped you’d sleep longer,” he whispered. “I brought you tea.”

Martin smiled and squeezed Jon’s arm. “Thank you, love. That’s sweet.”

“You had a rough night,” Jon muttered, kissing his cheek again and then nestling his nose to his temple.

“I suppose this is the benefit of a husband who gets up with the sun, even on the weekends,” he said. “I’m always the one that gets brought tea in bed.” 

Jon hummed a laugh that reverberated through Martin’s skull, and he reached up to wind his arms around his shoulders. 

“I’d say you should come back and join us, but it looks like your spot’s been taken,” Martin said, eyeing their daughter’s encroachment on Jon’s side of the bed.

“It seems it has.”

“Did she shove you out this morning?”

“No, no,” Jon said. “She was still in the middle when I got up. Must have rolled right on over though.”

They chuckled together and Martin began to scooch over towards Ellen to make room. “Come on.” Jon wasted no time crawling back under the covers and sinking into Martin’s side to soak up his warmth. He jolted at the touch of Jon’s bare feet, which he’d no doubt just been padding around the ice cold kitchen tile with.

“Jesus, Jon. Socks exist.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, making a meager effort to move his feet away. 

It wasn’t long before the little one beside them stirred, letting out a high-pitched waking sigh and turning towards them as her eyelids fluttered open. 

“Good morning, darling,” Jon said. “Keeping my spot warm?”

She rubbed her eyes with an impish little smile peeking out from behind her hands. 

“Wrong side, Daddy,” she pointed out. 

Jon clucked his tongue followed by a playful scoff. “Yes, well, I do think someone _stole_ my side, so I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

She giggled and Martin couldn’t help himself from gathering her up in his arm and corralling her close to his side. 

“How can such a terrible night’s sleep make for this cozy of a morning?” he mumbled. 

“Perhaps, as you said, because you have a husband who gets up with the sun and pampers you in bed,” Jon said with a cocked eyebrow. 

Martin’s jaw dropped, scandalized. " _Pampers_ me? You brought me tea, I’m not sure I’d define that as full pampering.”

It was Jon’s turn to look affronted. “Is that so?” He peeked over at their daughter, who was currently climbing over Martin’s legs to wedge herself between them once more. “I think we’re going to have to make Daddy breakfast in bed so he feels properly pampered.”

Martin wasn’t entirely sure how much of that was a joke, so he went along with it to test the waters. “I think you just might.” 

“What do you say, Ellen?”

She sat herself up and looked at him, considering the proposal with a pensive frown, that characteristic thoughtfulness she’d taken on since she started talking properly. “Breakfast in bed?”

Jon nodded. “Mhm.” 

“Okay,” she said, with a shrug and a decisive nod. 

Jon gave an adoring chuckle and then actually made to get out of the bed and scoop her up. “That’s settled, then.” 

Martin threw his head back in a laugh. “No, Jon, come back. Now I feel ridiculous.”

“No, no,” Jon said, setting Ellen on the floor and collecting her cup as well as his coffee. “I’ll show you I can serve a proper pampering.” 

Martin groaned. “I was just being cheeky. You do _not_ have to make me breakfast in bed,” he assured him. 

For a moment, Jon dropped his haughty charade and looked at him with an easy, loving sincerity. “Darling, don’t worry about it. Just let me be good to you, would you?” 

When Jon said things like that, Martin knew there was no talking him out of it. 

“Fine,” he said, slumping back on the pillows. 

“Drink your tea,” Jon said with a wicked grin. “We’ll be back soon.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ellen is a quiet child bc 1. she would be and 2. I don’t know how to write child dialogue!!!!!! googling fucking videos of three year olds talking like a psychopath


	29. gone like the darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three times running into someone from the past makes Jon and Martin think on how they’ve changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise it's a long one less than 24 hours after posting the last one

Jon had lost the plot of what Martin was chattering about at least a block ago, something about a low and slow cooking method, but he couldn’t help but walk sporting a small, discreet smile at Martin’s excitement. He often took Sunday afternoons to try new recipes, starting early in the evening to accommodate for long-winded, detailed steps and mistakes and Jon getting in the way on purpose. 

There were some ingredients Martin just couldn’t find in the shops in their neighborhood, or at least to his desired standard, so sometimes, they’d make a trek into Central London to go to a bigger, better stocked grocery store. They’d done such a thing this afternoon and were now heading back to the car, their hands that weren’t occupied by hefty shopping bags joined between them. 

“Martin?” 

They both halted and turned to see an older woman they’d just passed staring at them and stepping closer with a curious look on her face. In a manner that seemed all but casual, Martin let go of Jon’s hand and drew it in to himself, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

“Ah--Aunt Diana?” 

The woman’s mouth hung open, one hand splayed on her cheek. 

“Oh my god, it is you! I haven’t seen you since you were in school, but god, you look _just_ like your dad. I thought I was seeing things!” 

Jon watched helplessly as Martin, who usually delighted in a chance reunion on the street, slumped in on himself and pulled the grocery bag up to cradle in both arms, fidgeting with the edge of the plastic. 

“Yeah, it’s--it’s me, alright,” he said, forcing out a pleasant laugh. “How--how have you been?”

“Oh, just great. God, it’s really been years, I--I was so sorry to hear about your mother,” she said with a sympathetic hand to her chest. 

Martin mustered a remorseful smile. “Thanks.”

“And how have you been?”

“Good, actually, I--” To Jon’s relief, Martin returned the grocery bag to one hand and laid the other on the small of his back, stepping close to him again. “This is my, ah, m--my husband. Jon. Jon, this is my Aunt Diana.” 

Jon gave a polite wave and a greeting and watched surprise take the woman’s face until it smoothed into something more genial. He thought he detected a note of distaste or disappointment in her expression, but he simply stored that informative tidbit away for now should he need to wield it later. 

“Oh, you’re married!” she said. “That’s--congratulations, Martin.” 

“Thanks, I--yeah, just last year.” 

They exchanged a few more pleasantries and then said their cordial goodbyes. Once she was far enough away, Martin let out a deep sigh and turned on his heel to head on. Jon took the risk of easing his hand back into Martin’s as they walked.

“I gather you weren’t very close?” Jon said after a silent moment.

He gave a bitter laugh. “How’d you get that?”

“Well, besides the fact that I’ve never heard of her, you dropped my hand the second you saw her.” 

Martin groaned and stopped in his tracks, looking utterly ashamed. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that. It was just one of those terrible reflexes, you know? When you turn into the person you were the last time you saw someone no matter how much you’ve changed, I just--”

“It’s alright, Martin,” Jon said, soothing the back of his hand with his thumb. “I understand.” 

“God, I don’t even know the last time I got all closet-y like that. I don’t miss that feeling.”

“You called me your husband,” Jon said. “I didn’t feel as though you were trying to hide.” 

“Did you hear me stumble, though? Like I couldn’t figure out what to call you, for Christ’s sake. What did I think, I was going to tell her we’re just friends?”

Jon laughed gently and said, “I wouldn’t have faulted you if you did.” 

Martin sighed miserably. “Yeah, but I’m not--I used to be so--why would I act ashamed when I’m not anymore? I don’t--I don’t want to be like that.”

“You’re not,” Jon assured him. “It just caught you off guard.”

“Yeah,” he said, staring at the ground silently for a moment. “She’s my dad’s sister,” he explained. “She was actually pretty nice, and she and my mum got on so they kept up a bit on Facebook, which was sort of weird, but… Shit, I didn’t even ask about my dad. How rude is that?” 

“I don’t think that should be expected of you, considering,” Jon said with a shrug. 

He gave a frustrated groan. “Yeah, but it’s just--it’s just decent, isn’t it? To ask. Whatever. Let’s just go.” He promptly turned and carried on in the direction of their car, walking a bit more briskly than before. Jon followed a pace behind to give him a bit of space, but then gently grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face him, gazing with all the tenderness he had. 

“Are you with me, darling?”

“Yeah, yeah, just…” He let out a big sigh and looked at Jon. “Just a little bit stuck in the past. So maybe not.” 

“That’s alright. Do you want to find a place to sit a moment?” 

“No, we’ve got--” He lifted up the bag in his hand. “Frozen things, and all that.”

“Alright, let’s go home.” 

Martin nodded and before he let him carry on, Jon ran his hand down his arm and lifted his hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles.

* 

Every so often, Martin had to work a Saturday if there was an event at the library, or simply in pursuit of having a week day off in exchange if they had trouble with childcare. These solitary Saturdays had once been rare opportunities for Jon to get some work done without the tempting distraction of spending time with his husband instead, but the sanctity of this alone time had completely shifted since Ellen. Jon no longer spent these days alone at all, but with a tiny little presence by his side at all times, one that demanded much more of his time and attention by nature.

She’d grown so vocal recently and it was endlessly exciting seeing which sounds and vague words she picked up on and repeated. Nothing melted Jon’s heart like the nonsensical conversations Martin could carry on with her, replying to her incessant strings of syllables and near-words with thoughtful responses as if it all made perfect sense to both of them. 

Taking her on walks in the park near their house was decidedly the best method for getting her to nap for a while in the afternoon. Just before she’d fallen asleep today, she’d been chattering away, almost as if taking verbal notes on each new, exciting thing she saw, falling leaves, a dog, a cyclist whizzing past. Her babbling soon started to die down and Jon felt a sense of burgeoning victory as she drifted off without him having to do much more than push her around. 

When she was totally out, he rested on a bench and opened his book, but found himself sporadically distracted from the pages by the sweet visage of his daughter and the adorable pout her face sometimes squished into when she slept. 

He was caught up in one of these staring spells when he heard a voice call his name.

“Is that Jonathan Sims?” 

He whipped his head up to see a vaguely familiar woman, waving with a wide, incredulous smile. He stared and took a moment to bite his tongue against the pedantic reflex to correct her on his married name, all while struggling to grasp who exactly she was and why she knew him. It quickly dawned on him that she was someone he knew way back from university, though her name was entirely lost to time. 

He shook his head when he realized he’d taken a beat too long to respond. “Oh god, sorry. Yes, er…”

“Nat Vasquez? We were in the same college at Oxford.”

“That’s right. So sorry, it’s been so long.” 

She batted a hand in the air. “Oh, I don’t blame you. I’m just good with faces. It’s kind of a curse, really. I can’t go anywhere without recognizing someone I met once at a party or something like that!” 

She trailed off with an overly friendly laugh and vague memories of her came flooding back, flashes of feeling trapped in conversation and desperately trying to catch Georgie’s eye across the room so she’d come bail him out. She’d been unbearably chatty, the kind of personality that he usually had the liberty to let Martin handle these days.

Something gave him the notion that hadn’t changed much.

“Ah--how have you been?” he asked.

She promptly launched into an abridged recap of the last fifteen years of her life and work history, which Jon was perfectly content to listen and nod along to if it meant he could evade answering similar questions himself for a bit.

“And how about you?” she finally asked. “Oh, d’you ever talk to Georgie Barker? I remember you being close.” 

Even better, a question about him that wasn’t actually _about_ him. “Quite a lot, actually.” 

“That’s lovely. She doing well?”

“Yes, she lives in Brighton with her wife and daughter. They were actually just here visiting a few weeks ago.”

At the mention of children, Nat poked her head toward the stroller.

“Who’s this, then?”

“This is Ellen,” he said, unable to keep from smiling down at her again. “She’s nearly two.” 

“She yours?” 

Jon furrowed his brow at the question. What would he be doing sitting in a park staring at a baby that wasn’t his?

“Yes, we--my husband and I, that is, we adopted just last year.”

“Wow,” Nat said, sounding genuinely impressed albeit a bit condescending. “I have to say, I never imagined you the baby type back then, but it’s funny how much can change, isn’t it?”

Jon shifted and laughed, hoping he didn’t sound as uncomfortable as he felt. “It certainly is.” 

Fortunately, it appeared Nat was running late for an appointment, so she couldn’t chat much longer. She left him with his sleeping child, his thumb still hopefully wedged in his place in his book, and a head full of percolating thoughts.

Everyone had known for a fact that Martin would take to fatherhood like a pro (except for Martin himself, of course.) Jon was less of a shoe in, despite his well-documented softening and smoothing of prickly edges in recent years. He knew how he presented himself to people for most of his life and harboured his fair share of regrets, but he never really got the chance to reacquaint with someone who knew nothing of him through the most turbulent and transformative years of his life. 

Thinking back on the version of himself Nat must have known, he saw a quiet, pretentious pedant of a student always trying to prove his intellect and worth at someone else’s expense. He wouldn’t have thought that little prick could ever be a decent father either. 

So many parts of him, mind and body, had been changed and mangled between then and now. He didn’t know how to separate all that from the natural passage of time, the mellowing that might have happened regardless. It all seemed so related, that he’d met Martin and his insidious fate on the very same day, and his long fight to hold onto humanity and his friends from that point on was the most evident explanation for how he learned to let love in.

Martin didn’t like it when Jon implied he’d had to go through the hell he did to have ever found himself this open and free. His therapist wasn’t fond of that line of thinking, either. But sometimes, he couldn’t help but see it all as cause and effect. 

He frequently recalled something Martin said after they’d begun the adoption process, on their way home from one of the first times they’d gotten to visit and meet with Ellen. 

“I know that look on you,” Martin said after a few moments’ silence on the train ride. 

Jon gave him a petulant side eye, effectively breaking whatever expression he was referring to. “What look?”

“You’re falling in love.” 

It surprised him, since what he’d really been thinking in that moment was a twisting, tangled string of all of the things he could fail at if he took on the responsibility of being that beautiful little baby’s father. 

Jon scoffed. “I’d have thought it was one of abject terror.”

“Oh, it was,” Martin said. “That’s what you look like when you’re falling in love.” 

It made sense, it did. Martin knew him well enough to notice the same thing he surely saw when Jon first fell in love with _him_ , and that was the overwhelming fear of single-handedly fucking it all up or losing him to something beyond his control. And yes, that was precisely what he was feeling about this child they were soon to call theirs. If that was the sign that he truly loved someone, so be it. It certainly drove him to do anything in his power to be good enough. 

But Ellen was such a happy child, and when she looked at him and reached out and called for him, not just for anyone but for _him,_ he thought at some point he must have figured out how to do something right. 

Jon shook his head, silently cursing his chatty old classmate for setting off this existential turmoil that left him staring off into the treeline instead of his book. He barely got through two pages before he heard small, telltale grunts and gave up altogether. He peered into the stroller as Ellen’s eyes began to blink open.

“Hello, darling,” he said, a smile spreading on his face. “Nice nap?”

She wasn’t quite awake enough yet to dignify that with a response, but she rubbed at her eyes and then promptly stuck out her arms toward him.

“Down?” she asked, opening and closing her little hands in a grabby motion. 

“Alright,” he said, stowing his book away and lifting her out to walk beside him as he took them both home. 

*

It had been an absolute joy to have Ellen back for her winter holiday, filling the house with her particular radiant warmth that Jon missed so dearly since she went to university. He tried not to let it dampen his spirits too much when her break came to a close and she had to return to campus for the start of her new term. 

Ellen tried to insist on simply taking the bus back to her dorm by herself, but Martin was still riddled with sentimental holiday spirit and was having none of that. He declared that they’d drive her and take her to lunch before they dropped her off, and so they found themselves huddled in a cafe near Euston Square enjoying a cozy meal together with a shared pot of tea at the center. 

Just as they started to consider departing, something caught Martin’s eye and Jon followed his gaze, resting on a woman who had just stepped away from the counter to wait for her order to take away. 

“Jon, that’s Rosie.”

“Who?”

“From the Institute!” he hissed. “The receptionist?”

He squinted at the woman across the way. He’d have never made the connection had Martin not brought it up, having not seen her in over twenty years. “Good lord, it is.” 

Suddenly, Martin called out, “Rosie!”

“Martin,” Jon grumbled under his breath.

“What?” he asked just as Rosie spotted him, looking utterly taken aback before she stepped closer.

“Martin?” she said, and then her eye caught on Jon. “Oh my god, Jon!” 

“I can’t believe it. How have you been?” Martin asked. 

Rosie looked between them as if doing a brief calculation. Jon thought he spotted the moment she put it all together, just as she laid eyes on Ellen. Something like a cross between amusement and warmth passed over her face before she answered. 

“Been great, and you--you as well?”

“Oh yeah. We just had the nicest holiday and now we’re just taking our daughter back to UCL,” Martin said, proudly gesturing to her. 

“I’m Ellen,” she said with a small wave. “Nice to meet you.” 

Rosie looked between them all again and then let out a small laugh. 

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s just that I really never would have guessed, the two of you. How funny.”

Jon could have found himself offended, but honestly, from her perspective, it was a bit funny. She seemed genuinely delighted. 

“Yeah, I reckon you remember things between us a little differently,” Martin said. 

“Were you dating back then?” she said, looking like she was racking her memory for something she’d missed. 

Martin laughed. “Not when we were at the Institute, actually.”

“You got together _after_?”

“Well, er--it was complicated,” Jon supplied. 

Rosie laughed knowingly. “I bet it was.” 

Jon couldn’t help but feel a pang of desire to ask what she knew, if she was trapped like they’d been, and how she’d parsed it all since. It was for the best then that the barista called her name and set her order on the counter. 

Martin dropped his hands into his lap, looking pleased and grateful for the encounter. “Well, god, it was lovely to see you, Rosie.” 

“You too,” she said, then regarding them with an odd curiosity. “You seem like you’re doing well.”

“We really are,” Jon said. 

“I’m glad to hear it.” 

“Are you?” Martin asked, and it was clear all around this question had deeper connotations than their previous compulsory greetings. 

“Yeah,” she said with a smile. “I am.”

He nodded. “Good. We all deserve it, I think.” 

They watched her make her way out with her order and sat quiet until she disappeared out the door. 

“So you knew her back in the day?” Ellen asked. 

“Barely,” Jon said.

“Speak for yourself, I knew her quite well,” Martin said. “She was the best for a bit of gossip. Everybody told her everything and she had no departmental loyalty.”

Jon made a small, disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “That’s probably why she was so surprised, if she really only knew me through what other people said.”

“And she was probably ready to lose her mind if we had been dating right under her nose back then. She’d have never missed something _that_ juicy.” 

“God, can you imagine what she must think?” Jon said, distressed. “I bet all she remembers is hearing about me barking at you like an idiotic rabid dog and then you turned around and married me? What kind of Victorian literary villain must I look like, stronghanding the assistant I abuse into marriage--”

Martin let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, come off it, you idiot. No one would think that.” 

Ellen laughed at his dramatics as well, though he wasn’t entirely convinced it couldn’t be perceived that way. 

“Dad, _why_ were you such a dick back then?” she marveled, all of a sudden. 

He shook his head, looking up at the ceiling as if appealing to a higher power for the answer. “Darling, I wish I knew.” 

“ _Back then?_ ” Martin jibed. Jon knew he was joking, but still shot him a withering look. 

Ellen laughed and added, “Look, I’m not saying you’re a perfect delight to everyone all the time, but I really can’t imagine you being _that_ mean.” 

“Oh, you know,” he said, leaning his face in his hand. “It just took years of near death experiences, loss, and terror to change my ways. And your father.” 

“I was wondering if I was going to get credited there at all,” Martin said. 

They cleared up their table and made their way to the door while the oddity of the run-in hung strangely in the air. 

“God, I wonder what happened to her during the whole change, huh?” Martin said as they started off down the block. 

Jon took a deep, regretful breath. “I think I’d rather not know.”

“Oh, how the tables have turned, Archivist.”

“Don’t do that,” he groaned. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin said, though his wry smile didn’t fade as he leaned over for an apologetic kiss on the cheek. “Couldn’t resist.”

“You’re forgiven,” Jon said begrudgingly, snaking his gloved hand around Martin’s elbow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy let me tell you something I have a weakness for - walking in the winter all bundled up with your arm linked with someone else's  
> that last line is the last thing I wrote just now and now i’m yearning
> 
> anyway I really liked writing this, it was fun to write something that spanned across like 20 years of their lives in one piece


	30. I am tired and I am yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he is wont to do, Jon has been burning the candle at both ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just your average, run of the mill, jon needs sleep fic

For once, Martin woke in the middle of the night gently rather than violently. Perhaps it was the fact that Jon was still missing from the bed and his body was used to his husband having crawled in and wound his spindly limbs around him by now. It used to wake him up in the beginning. He was always quick to fall back to sleep, though, so he never minded. After a while, he started sleeping through it entirely when Jon came to bed after him and it would appear what actually stirred him tonight was the lack of that.

His phone told him it was half two, meaning he’d gone to kiss Jon goodnight just about three hours ago. Martin pulled on his robe to fight against the chill and padded out to the hall to poke his head into the neighboring room, the second-bedroom-turned-office. It was exactly as he’d expected. Jon was slumped over his desk, his hair in an unruly bun that flopped comically off one side of his head which was unceremoniously pillowed on his folded arms. 

This year, Jon had spearheaded a campaign at his school to develop responsible and accurate curriculum guidelines for any content regarding the apocalyptic events of several years’ past. It quickly bridged into providing appropriate mental health care support for students and an overhaul of sensitivity practices in classrooms, the breadth of which had left Jon well out of his depth and chronically overworked for the last six months. 

The school he worked at was… not the most progressive, and the school board had proven quite impossible to sway on a lot of matters, doubling the difficulty of an already Herculean effort. Thankfully, he wasn’t the only faculty member with similar concerns and he’d been able to collect a small team of teachers to back him up. It wasn’t all on his plate alone, but he still spent many nights drafting and reworking and researching long after Martin went to sleep. 

As far as they knew, they were still some of the select few that had any clue what had actually happened to the world. To avoid unnecessary and unwanted attention, they aimed to keep it that way. This required Jon to, on top of his workload, constantly thread a very narrow needle of appearing just as ignorant about all the same things as the general public while still proving knowledgeable, credible, and fit to be speaking to the subject matter.

Jon was so, so very tired but Martin couldn’t help but be immensely proud of him for it all, as if he wasn’t already. He did his best to help however he could, reading Jon’s plans and talking things over with him, offering feedback and his own perspective, and often helping him reword things a bit more diplomatically than he was prone to. More often, though, his support came in the form of cups of tea, shoulder rubs, and simple whispered reassurances.

“You should be the one doing this, not me,” Jon had said the other night, his head balanced on his fingertips as he stared down at his draft of a proposal he was making at a meeting the following evening. 

“Why do you say that?” Martin asked. 

“People like you when you talk. I just--I just don’t have that.”

“You’ve got conviction,” he offered. “You’re absolutely relentless and that’s just as important.”

“Yes, but I just--I worry I’m not getting as far because I just can’t win them over personally. I’m not the likable face this whole thing deserves.” 

“ _I_ like your face,” Martin muttered, eliciting the murderous look he expected. 

He reached his hand across the kitchen table and beckoned for Jon to place his in it. “You don’t have to be a perfect politician to do this, Jon. You know what has to be done and you’re going to do it. That’s all.” 

Jon sighed deeply and stroked his thumb across Martin’s palm. “When I imagined dealing with the repercussions of the apocalypse, I didn’t really foresee my adversary being a rich, white, privileged school board.”

Martin laughed and squeezed his hand. “Yeah. Me neither.” 

For all the late nights he spent in this office, it was surprisingly infrequent that Martin had to come find him passed out on his notes like this. He’d gotten a lot better at forcing himself to stop and rest, far better than he was in years past. The sight of him reminded Martin of a night years ago during his stay in document storage when he’d passed by Jon’s office to notice he was fast asleep at his desk at eleven at night. He’d been so afraid to approach him, sure that waking him would be not unlike poking a sleeping bear, unleashing a wave of venom for bothering him or invading his privacy or who knows what else. So in lieu of shaking him awake and telling him to go home, he’d simply stolen the blanket off the back of Sasha’s chair and thrown it over him, intending to leave him in peace. 

Jon had stirred, though there was none of the aggression he’d been afraid of. He was simply disoriented, unaware of when he’d fallen asleep or what he’d been doing last. All he uttered were some dazed mutterings and to Martin’s surprise, something that sounded suspiciously like a ‘thank you.’ 

He chuckled at the memory and quietly made his way into the room, afraid only of startling the poor, overworked bastard. He sidled up to the desk and swept his hand gently over Jon’s head. He started with a sharp breath, only lifting his head up a few inches for a moment before he whipped up to see Martin standing over him.

“Hey,” he said, gazing down at him tenderly. “Come to bed, love.” 

Jon glanced at what he’d been working on and, subsequently, sleeping on and groaned, soft and exhausted. 

“I didn’t finish anything,” he muttered. “I really should have--”

“It’s late, Jon,” Martin said. “You really should come to bed, is what you should do. You’ll get it done later.” 

Jon looked up at him with concern furrowing his brow. “What time is it? Did I wake you?”

Martin chuckled a bit. “You were sleeping on your notebook. How could you have woken me?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered, letting his head fall against Martin’s soft belly. 

He slid his hands over Jon’s shoulders, attempting to rub just a bit of the tension out of them. 

“Come on, don’t make me carry you.”

Jon huffed a distant, muffled laugh. “You can’t be serious,” he mumbled.

“Oh, I could be.” 

Jon picked up his head with great effort and stretched out his arms and his back, bones popping and cracking in worrisome ways. He groaned again and leaned forward to scan through the document open on his computer, trying to figure out where he’d left off. 

“Now that I’m awake, I really should just try to get a bit more done since I--”

“Jon,” Martin interrupted, his voice soft and gentle.

It managed to give Jon pause and he stared at his screen silently for a moment.

Finally, he muttered, “I know.” Without any more cajoling, he actually shut his laptop and leaned back in his chair, looking up at Martin with his eyes gone soft and grateful. “You go back to bed, darling. I’ll be right there, I promise.”

Martin cocked an eyebrow.

“I promise,” he repeated. 

“I’m going to watch you walk out of this room with my own eyes before I leave you unattended to sneak your computer open again.” 

Jon rolled his eyes, though it came with a small knowing grin. “Well, you don’t have to stand there waiting for me. That’s absurd.” 

“I just want you to get some sleep,” Martin said. “You clearly need it.”

“I said I’m coming.”

“I’m not new to this, Jon. I know you.” Jon let his head fall to the side, self-awareness spreading across his face. Martin nodded toward the door. “Come on. Out.” 

“Yes, yes.” 

Jon reluctantly heaved himself up from his chair and made accusatory eyes at him as he slunk past into the hall. He considered his job done when Jon closed the door to the bathroom, so he turned off the light in the office and got back in bed.

When Jon finally crawled in beside him, Martin wrapped his arms around him and tucked Jon’s back to his chest. He let out a relieved sigh and wiggled a bit, as if trying to get even closer. 

With one hand, Martin carefully extracted the elastic from Jon’s hair and threw it indiscriminately to the side. He proceeded to comb out the tangles with his fingers as gently as possible. 

“Where’d you put that?” Jon asked, referring to the elastic. “S’my only one.” 

“Get more, you weirdo,” Martin said. “Where’d they all go?’

“Lost,” he muttered, melting into Martin’s touch. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he whispered. “Just relax.”

He gave up on Jon’s hair for now and wound that arm back around him, laying his hand just near his heart. Martin always knew one of the constant struggles in this marriage would be tricking Jon into taking care of himself. But this new work he’d taken on was bleeding him dry in a different way, one that wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. It was no secret that to Jon, all of this was some form of making reparations, and not even a remotely sufficient one at that. He hadn’t said as much out loud, but it was quite clear.

Martin listened when he spoke about the meetings and the presentations, when he came home late after arguing that children deserve to have a choice in how they interact with their trauma, dead tired but still brutally convicted. He always listened for that something Jon hadn’t quite said out loud yet, but was undeniably between the lines. Jon always trailed off just before he said, ‘It’s the least I could do after what I’ve done.’

Martin dropped a kiss to his hunched, bony shoulder. 

“Hey, I’m really proud of you for the work you’re doing, you know that?” 

Jon’s hand slid to cover Martin’s on his own chest. “So you’ve said.” 

“I hope you’re proud of yourself, too,” he said. “For how much you put into all this.” 

He gave a distressed sigh. “I’m far too tired to be handling this kind of praise right now.” 

Martin chuckled and pressed his lips into his hair. “Go to sleep, love.” 

“I love you, Martin,” he whispered. 

He knew there was a silent ‘thank you for dragging me to bed,’ in there, though Jon would never say those words out loud. That was good enough.

“Love you too, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i retreating into writing fluff to cope this week? idk what do you think


	31. under the rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rainy afternoons herd Jon right into Martin’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's another this-feels-like-nothing piece!! another "i just had very basic ideas in my head that i wanted to write myself" piece!!!!!

Whenever it rained on a weekend afternoon and Jon happened to be holed up in the study, Martin would inevitably hear the door creak open, followed by tentative footsteps on the stairs. Jon sought him out quietly like a cat. He tracked Martin down wherever he was in the house and wordlessly wedged himself into his embrace, giving himself a break from whatever he’d been buried in all day. If he wasn’t already there, Martin would walk him to the couch and pull him close and Jon would sigh as if he’d gotten just what he wanted. 

It was something about the rain, though Martin didn’t know quite what. Without fail, it flushed Jon out of his hiding spot and into his arms, seeking warmth and skin pressed on skin, sweet whispers and talk of what they should do for dinner. Sometimes, Martin could get Jon to read to him, something he loved not only for the sound of his husband’s voice, but for the amusing, judgmental commentary he interjected whenever he thought a line was too trite or overwrought or just plain silly. 

Martin laid on his side pressed along the back of the couch, arms wrapped around Jon’s frame and holding him close. This particular afternoon, the rain was made up of steady, large drops pounding against the old window panes, none of that petty English drizzle. It was the kind of weather that bred comfort inside a good home, a gratefulness to be in here and not out there. 

“Before everything,” Martin said, breaking a silence that had stretched on a bit. “Where did you think you’d be by now?”

Jon shifted in a way that made Martin suspect he’d just been about to doze off. “Define ‘everything.’ And ‘by now.’”

“I mean before the Institute. At least, before you met me, before anything... went wrong. Where did you think you’d be by this time in your life?”

They’d had iterations of this conversation before when marveling at the path that led them where they were now, but it was always interesting to Martin to hear about Jon before they met, a man so different from the one in his arms now.

Jon wiggled around until he was facing him, with a sardonic brow raised over drowsy eyes. Martin tightened his arms so there was no danger of him slipping too close to the edge of the couch.

“Trying to prove again how you made all my dreams come true?”

“No,” Martin said indignantly. “I’m just asking where you thought you’d be right now, before you knew about any of the... spooky stuff.” 

Jon gave a thoughtful sigh, sliding one arm around to rest on Martin’s back and burrowing the other under the pillow beneath his head. 

“I thought…” He began, searching his memory. “Well, to be quite honest, I didn’t think much. I thought I’d have some academic job, either… promoted at the Institute--” He paused to make a face at this. “Or somewhere else. I thought I’d have figured out the answers to some of my questions, which to be fair, I did. I just found too many more. And not the good kind.”

He paused again, looking unsure of whatever he meant to say next. 

“I thought there was a chance I’d meet someone who I tolerated enough to be with longterm, and who tolerated me enough to stay. Maybe not forever but at least, for a while. Mostly, I assumed I’d be alone, though. That sounded easier than trying.” 

Martin regarded him with a pitying frown, combing his fingers through the back of his hair. Jon’s eyes narrowed. 

“This _was_ a ploy to make me admit you made all my dreams come true.” 

“Not at all,” Martin protested. “At no point did you say anything about dreaming of a lovely, devoted, trophy husband who fills volumes with poetry about the way your eyes look in the moonlight.”

He eyed him with a snide look that said, _Oh, yes, darling. That’s precisely what you are_. 

“Well, you didn’t ask what I _dreamed_ about. You asked what I expected.”

Martin scoffed and his hand stilled in Jon’s hair. “Are you trying to tell me you _did_ have secret romantic dreams of finding true love? Because I don’t believe that for a second.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Well, no, I wouldn’t say it was quite like that, but… Doesn’t everyone subconsciously dream of that, even the most miserable, emotionally stunted of people?”

“I suppose.” 

Jon’s hand slithered up his chest to his neck to stroke his cheek with his thumb. “And what about you? What did you expect?”

Martin promptly realized the question wasn’t so easy to answer, having to dredge up a mental state from years ago with a lot of reality-shattering occurrences in between. 

“Does it make sense to say I always thought my destiny was to be _un_ happily married?” he said. 

“As a child of an unhappy marriage, I’d say that rather makes sense.” 

Martin chuckled. “Yeah. I just believed for so long that I’d probably manage to get married, but it would be for some reason other than love, like convenience or necessity, or… I don’t know.”

Jon tilted his head, thumb still moving back and forth across his cheekbone. “You really thought--I mean… You’re so full of love, and so prone to falling in it,” he muttered.

“Sort of thought that was the catch,” Martin said. “You know, that… that _I_ could love someone plenty but they’d never love me as much as--because I just wasn’t--well, for a long while, I sort of thought I was unlovable no matter how much effort I put into someone.” 

“My darling,” Jon whispered. 

“Unfortunately, that’s just how I was raised!” he said with feigned cheer. “But… yeah, I don’t know how much I actually believed in this deep down.” 

“Believed in…?”

“That this could be a possibility,” Martin answered, followed by a kiss to Jon’s forehead. “That… That someone could really, truly love me as much as I loved them.”

“I do,” Jon whispered, his fingers roaming to lace into the curls at the base of Martin’s head. 

He scrunched up his nose, suddenly struck by all they’d said. 

“God, we were two sad sods, weren’t we?” 

“Maybe so,” Jon said. “Not anymore, though.”

“No, not anymore.” 

Martin tightened his arms and rolled onto his back until Jon was splayed on top of him. This pulled a surprised laugh from him followed by a reverent kiss, pressed to Martin’s lips like an offering. They stayed like this for a moment, the rain against the house the only sound mixing with their slow, deliberate breaths, huffing in and out of their noses while their mouths remained pressed together.

Eventually, Jon pulled back and glared down at him. “Admit you asked because you wanted to hear me wax poetic about how much you changed my life.” 

He raised an eyebrow innocently. “Maybe I also wanted the opportunity to tell you the same.” 

“You need a reason?” 

Martin shot back, just as playful, “Do you?” 

“Touché.” 

With that, Jon laid his head down against his chest, tucked under his chin, and let out that typical, contented sigh. His hand traveled up and down Martin’s arm lazily. 

“What is it about the rain?” Martin asked after a moment. 

“Hm?”

“Why is it that you always come and find me when it’s raining? If you’re up there working?”

“Oh,” Jon said, sounding as if he’d never noticed. There was a good chance he hadn’t. “I suppose it’s… If I’m staring out the window and it’s all cold and grey and I’ve already lost my focus, I’d much rather be curled up with you instead.”

He chuckled. “Honestly, the differences between you and a cat are few.”

“So I’ve been told. By you, mostly.” 

Martin thought the answer was complete until a moment later, Jon spoke again, his fingers now tracing light patterns on Martin’s arm.

“And… I think I worry a bit. That you--if it’s that dreary out, I don’t want you to feel alone.”

Martin’s breath caught a bit and he moved his hand up to cradle his head. 

“Oh, Jon,” he whispered. “I’m fine, you know. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“I know. But like I said, it’s not entirely selfless. I get cuddled, you get company. Everybody wins.”

Martin chuckled. “I suppose you’re right about that.” 

Jon picked his head up and folded his arms across Martin’s chest, leaning his chin on them and gazing up at him with a curious glint in his eye. It felt a bit silly with just inches between their noses, but Jon looked like he had something else to say. 

“What?” Martin asked.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone so quite deserving of love as you,” Jon said.

Martin scrunched up his face in mild distaste. “That’s a bit hyperbolic, you think? Not to mention, you’re probably a bit biased?”

“Well, maybe,” he said. “I know it doesn’t actually work like that, I just mean… You, Martin. You give love so freely that it kills me to think you ever felt you didn’t deserve just as much in return.”

He was quiet for a second, just petting Jon’s head as he stared into his eyes, his incredibly demanding scrutiny boring into Martin’s soul. “No, I know, Jon. It was a long time ago that I felt like that.”

Jon nodded. “I understand, but… If it ever creeps back in, I just…” He sighed and canted his head to the side, maintaining his locked gaze. “I just hope you know it’s a categorical, unchangeable fact for the rest of our natural lives that I love you with all that I am. And if for whatever reason you ever can’t feel that, just tell me and I’ll fix it.”

“Are we renewing our vows right now?” Martin said, shifting his tone towards playful to deflect some of the intensity of Jon’s sincerity.

“If you’d like.”

Martin rolled his eyes and shoved at Jon’s shoulder. “You are being such a sap, you know that?”

“Yes.” 

He heaved a sigh. “No, I…” he said, affording him the earnest response he deserved. “I’ve never doubted that, Jon.” 

“Good.” 

Jon unfolded his arms and took Martin’s face between both hands, tugging him forward into another kiss. His lips moved with purpose, like a seal stamped upon solemn words to prove them true and verified. 

“This is quite a mood you’re in,” he muttered, barely removing his lips from Jon’s.

“I believe you started it with your loaded questions.” 

Martin giggled and pulled back to keep up his act of deflecting blame. “I think it’s the rain.” 

“Perhaps,” Jon said with a smirk. 

“Well,” he said. “Do you have to go work some more or are you going to come be a nuisance in the kitchen while I start dinner?”

Jon hummed a laugh that meandered into a noise of contemplation. “As tempting as that is, I really should finish up this lesson plan. I’ll be done for the evening after that, though. All yours.” 

“Alright, love. Come back down in a bit.” 


	32. us and only us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon isn’t the only one susceptible to Martin’s charm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a bit of a prompt fill from a comment from HiHereAmI! I feel like when people request things i’m always like yes that, but also what if it gets sad for a minute

The problem was, Martin _liked_ to socialize at his office parties. Jon hoped Lena didn’t mind that he always ended up clinging to her at these things when his husband continued his rounds after Jon hit his small talk quota. She’d always been the sit-at-your-table-and-drink sort of partygoer anyway, a spectating gossip, which Jon appreciated. It was how they’d really bonded when they first met a few years ago, anyway. 

Tonight, they’d just been chatting about a film they’d both seen recently when Lena’s eyeline focused on something in the distance. 

“Oh god, Andrew is shooting his shot,” she said.

“What?” Jon glanced over his shoulder in the direction she was looking.

Martin was chatting with a man who’s height rivaled his own, dressed in a suit that Jon would guess was expensive if he had any point of reference. The man leaned against a column, his eyes trained solely on Martin as he spoke with charming, animated head movements. It almost seemed like he wasn’t blinking. 

“He’s a notorious flirt, and not in the cute way,” Lena explained. “He’s majorly gross.”

“I get that,” Jon said, eyeing the man’s snakelike posture.

Martin stood entirely unaffected, holding his drink casually in his left hand. Jon wouldn’t have thought anything of it without Lena’s information, which led him to notice how blatantly this displayed his wedding ring. 

“He does it to a lot of people,” she said. “But I did hear from Isla that she heard him asking Russell if Martin was single a few weeks ago, and he obviously would have told him no, but that apparently isn’t stopping him now.”

Jon continued to stare at the interaction, transfixed and yearning to hear what was being said. Martin’s back was to him so he couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t seem to be making a speedy exit from the conversation. He didn’t really appear at all uncomfortable. Andrew suddenly held out his forearm, and then shook it a bit as if insisting Martin touch it and then he did, seemingly to feel the fabric. 

“I wouldn’t worry. Martin knows his game. He’s probably just being polite,” Lena offered. 

“I’m not worried, but I might go cut in regardless,” Jon said. “Maybe he needs an out.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” she said, and he got up from his seat.

Jon hadn’t really felt a possessive streak come out since the last time they were in mortal danger, but something about this man raised his hackles. Not that he felt Martin couldn’t handle himself, of course he could. If Martin wanted an out, he simply would have made one. 

He resisted being too surly off the bat and interrupted with nothing but a gentle hand on his husband’s arm. 

“There you are, love!” Martin pulled his hand from his pocket and slid it around Jon’s waist, almost with an inordinate amount of affection. He addressed Andrew as he squeezed his side. “This is my husband, Jon. Jon, this is Andrew.” 

The man actually gave him a blatant look up and down, followed by a disingenuous smile. 

“I didn’t know you were married,” he said to Martin, the shine of his smile fading by the second. 

Martin looked perplexed, almost cartoonishly so. “Really? I’ve got pictures all over my desk. I feel like I never stop talking about him.”

Andrew pursed his lips and then shrugged. “Well, you hadn’t mentioned him tonight. It must have slipped my mind.” He extended a hand, and Jon took it tentatively. “Nice to meet you, Jon.” 

He had the kind of firm handshake Jon assumed took up an entire term of business school to perfect. Once the man released his grip, he stuffed both hands into the pockets of his well-fitting jacket.

“Well, I think it’s time I got another drink,” he said. “A pleasure talking to you, Martin.” 

He swept off with a wolfish grin tossed back at them, and Jon didn’t hold back the distaste he felt from his expression. When he was out of earshot, Martin let out a quiet chuckle. 

“What was that?” Jon asked. 

“Oh, just a bit of fun leading on the office player,” Martin said plainly. 

Jon raised an eyebrow. “You were leading him on?” 

“Only a little,” he said, a mischievous smile spreading. “Just for the satisfaction of that very moment when you inevitably showed up. Perfect timing, by the way. Almost like we’d rehearsed.”

Jon huffed out a laugh, finding himself pleasantly amused that his husband could turn undesirable small talk into some sort of game to put a wanker in his place. “Should I be jealous?” 

He’d hoped to come across as flirtatious and smooth, but Martin looked at him like it was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “Obviously not.” 

“He’s rather… conventionally attractive,” Jon said, peeking over his shoulder pointedly. 

Martin scowled. “Yeah, in exchange for a personality and basic morals. That’s why I couldn’t resist building him up just enough to be able to gently tear him down,” he said, sounding a little too satisfied with himself.

Jon laughed in disbelief and looked up at him, full of adoration. “ _How_ do you make being a prick so endearing?”

Martin met him with a gaze just as enamored. “Could ask you the same thing.” 

“I’m not sure about that.” 

It was then that Lena sidled up with a new drink. “Chase him off, then, Jon?”

Martin straightened up in defense. “I think you’ll find I had the situation entirely in my control,” he insisted. 

“Apparently so, if you were leading him on,” Jon said.

Lena, ever one for a bit of dirt, dropped her jaw and said, “Oh my god, what did you do?”

“Nothing!” Martin said, throwing his hand in the air in innocence. “I just sort of wanted to see how far he’d try to go even though we both knew _he_ knew I’m married.” 

“You minx,” Lena said, conspiratorially. “What’d he try on you?” 

Martin’s face twisted in disgust. “God, he’s horrible. I don’t know how he’s seduced half the people he has. All he talked about was himself, what constitutes good whiskey, and how nice his suit is.” 

“Christ,” Jon muttered, sliding his arm around Martin’s back as if he could have protected him from the evils of bad conversation.

“He thinks just because he’s a textbook example of tall, dark, and handsome, he’s got every living being he chats up in the bag.” 

Jon curled his hand up around Martin’s shoulder and squeezed. “God, doesn’t he know your type is small, malnourished, and sleep-deprived? He had no chance.” 

Martin rolled his eyes. “That’s a bit rude.”

“To you or to me?”

“Both.” 

Lena laughed and began to scan the room, searching for where the man had gotten to. “Ooh, he looks a bit dejected. You might have actually managed to bruise his ego, Martin.” 

“Look, _he_ had the nerve to act like he didn’t know I wasn’t interested. I kept throwing my left hand around in his face and he still carried on like he had no idea. What did he expect?”

“What’s his actual job here?” Jon asked.

“You know, I’m not even sure,” Martin said, looking at Lena for any insight. She shrugged, just as clueless.

“You’d think it was just to pop up for an uncomfortably flirty chat when you want it least. But I think he’s actually in accounting or something like that.” 

Jon hummed in understanding. “Why am I not surprised?” 

On the bus home that night, Martin reached over and took Jon’s hand in his a bit strangely, and he immediately squeezed back.

“Did it bother you, how I was talking to that guy tonight?” he asked. 

Jon met his eye with a furrowed brow. “I wasn't worried you’re going to step out on me with the most boring and tedious man alive, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I know, but… it just occurred to me that it was probably a bit wrong to go sort-of flirting with someone, even if I obviously had no interest. I suppose I thought that’s what made it okay.” 

“Like I said, Martin, it really didn’t concern me. I mean, if it was someone who I felt could actually, er--” He cut himself off as he quickly became aware of the slippery slope he was heading towards, but was a little too exhausted and tipsy to hold his tongue now. “Someone who actually might make you happier than me, but him? I didn’t exactly perceive him as a threat.” 

Martin’s grip tightened on his hand and Jon felt a pang of regret that he’d actually said what he was thinking. He should have kept that to himself. 

“Does that happen?” Martin said, small and concerned. 

“Does what happen?” 

“What you said.”

Jon knew what he was asking, of course. He took a deep breath and sighed. 

“I’ve never been actually concerned that you’d… Sometimes, when I see you really get on with someone you have a lot in common with, I can’t stop myself from thinking, ‘Could he be happier? With someone different from--’” 

“Jon--”

“I know that’s not--I know,” he assured him. “I promise I’m never actually worried. It’s just…” He waved his free hand about in the air. “A general anxiety. An irrational concern.” 

“I guess there’s not much to be done about those,” Martin said. 

Jon gave a sad smile. “Not really.” 

They were silent for a moment, Jon staring at their hands joined together on Martin’s thigh as lights and shadows passed over them from the window of the bus. He knew he’d made Martin a bit sad, and he also could have known he would from the moment he opened his mouth. There was always that danger with them and alcohol, making Jon’s verbal filter too loose and Martin too prone to melancholy. 

Suddenly, Martin spoke again, his voice low and earnest.

“I love you so much. You know that, right?”

“Of course, I do.”

“No one else has been through what we’ve been through together,” he said. “I’d never walk away from that for anything.”

Jon gave a passive hum. “That sounds dangerously close to the sunk cost fallacy.”

Martin jerked his head back. “It’s not a--it would be a sunk cost if I got nothing out of it. If I was with someone who I poured all my time and effort into and got nothing in return. And you can try to argue with me, but that’s just not the way it is. Not one bit.” 

Jon sighed and smiled at him, too exhausted to indulge his own needling desire to contradict. 

“Alright.”

“You make me really happy, Jon,” he said. “Really happy.” 

“I know. I’m sorry I said that, I wasn’t--”

“No,” Martin said. “It is a normal thing to worry. I think that too, sometimes. I think it’s just who we both are. Can’t stop worrying people might be happier without us, even the people we make happiest.” 

Jon leaned his head onto Martin’s shoulder and Martin maneuvered his arm to wrap around him in turn. 

“I’m serious when I say I didn’t mind what you did tonight,” Jon muttered. “Your efforts to knock down the ego of a creepy man were admirable, and actually rather attractive.” 

“Is that so?” Martin said. “Maybe we should make a bit of a con out of it, then. I go sit at a bar and draw weirdos in with my natural charm, and then you swoop in all, ‘ _Is he bothering you?_ ’ Might get a free drink out of it here and there.” 

Jon laughed, turning his forehead onto Martin’s shoulder. “You can truly be such a bastard and I love you.”

Martin’s laughter jostled his head and Jon straightened up to face him, jutting his chin out slightly in solicitation of a kiss. Martin promptly delivered and then pulled back with a wry smile. 

“Once again, I could easily say the same for you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin’s a bitch and Jon likes him so much 
> 
> well, I made a shitty little twitter bc I never wanted to acknowledge my fan shit on main  
> feel free to interact!! @pantsoflobster  
> also bc i had the impulse to make a ko-fi just in case


	33. brave new world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day.

Martin was deciding what they could use to pick the lock to his flat when he miraculously dug the key from some deep pocket in his rucksack. He really had brought absolutely everything he could when they left the cabin, hoping to be the paragon of preparedness as if that would help at all. The flat looked just like it did the day they left for Scotland, barely lived in but full of all of Martin’s belongings that he’d simply carted from flat to flat in recent years. 

When the door shut behind them, the relief felt so suddenly real and crystalized that Martin couldn’t think to do anything but drop his bag to the floor and grab Jon with both arms, pulling him into a crushing embrace.

“It’s over,” he muttered into Jon’s shoulder. “Is it really over?”

“It is, Martin,” Jon whispered back. His hands came to twist into the back of Martin’s jacket and he leaned into him, just as limp and desperate. 

Martin heaved a deep breath in the crook of Jon’s neck and became distinctly aware of how they both smelled. 

“Shower?” 

“Together?” Jon muttered, an offer of company and nothing more.

“Please,” Martin said, and led him to the bathroom. 

They crowded into the minuscule shower and washed the blood and grime off each other’s bodies, rinsing it all out of their hair and down the drain and wishing that alone could absolve them of their awful journey. Jon leaned into Martin’s back and pressed kisses between his shoulder blades and when he turned around to glance at him, Martin found his face twisted into a mild grimace. He decided not to ask or even try to discern further if Jon was taking advantage of the opportunity to let the stream camouflage a few tears. 

They dried off and Martin set about searching his drawers for clothes that wouldn’t positively swim on Jon, coming up with some boxers and an old T-shirt that would still surely hang off his bones comically. He imagined they’d end up completely disposing of the clothes they’d had on them, leaving Jon practically nothing to his name. Anything he’d taken with him to Scotland was still there and anything left in the Institute was now a pile of ashes. They’d figure that out later. 

Martin pulled on some comfortable clothes of his own and when he turned, Jon was standing stock still, arms dropped to his sides, staring at him with a lost and desperate expression. Martin rushed to him and grabbed his shoulders, a bit too harshly at first before he realized and let up. He’d only just remembered the huge risk that Jon wouldn’t come back whole, having had the Eye ripped out of him after keeping him alive for so long. He’d been fine so far, hadn’t had any moments of distance or fog, and Martin had forgotten to even worry about that possibility. 

“Hey,” he said, trying to keep his tone calm and even. “What is it?” 

Jon took a sharp inhale, as if spooked by Martin’s voice despite the constant eye contact. But then he simply shook his head, never once looking away. 

“I… I see you, Martin. And that’s all I see. I’m so used to looking at you and trying to filter everything else out just to feel like you’re the only thing there, but… you are now, and I never thought I’d get that back.” 

Martin took a deep breath of relief. 

“Oh, Jon.” 

His gentle grip on Jon’s arms traveled down to trap his hands and he pulled him toward the bed. 

“Let’s rest, okay?” 

Jon simply gave one small nod and let go of his hands as Martin moved away, approaching the left side which had unofficially become his in the safehouse. Before he got in, Martin smoothed over the rumpled duvet, immediately remembering the last thing that happened there.

“Feels like a lifetime ago,” he muttered.

Jon looked up, still standing by the foot of the bed. “Hm?”

“Last time we were here was the first time you kissed me. I was packing and then you pushed me down on this bed and I thought I must have died and gone to some sort of heaven.” 

At this, Jon actually seemed to relax a bit and a small smile graced his face. “God,” he groaned. “If we only knew what was coming.” 

Martin climbed into the bed and patted the spot beside him. “Yeah. But I have to say, I also didn’t think we were going to get a three-week, rustic highlands vacation. I kind of thought we were headed to some sort of… bomb shelter hovel.” 

Jon hummed a laugh and gave up on hovering aimlessly beside the bed, slipping under the sheets and settling on his side facing Martin. He reached out toward him and Martin took the offered hand in his own, pulling it to his lips. Jon just kept doing it, kept boring his gaze directly into him so strangely and intently that Martin felt rude to look away. Just a few hours ago, this might have been an actually physically uncomfortable sensation, but that was decidedly gone. It was just Jon looking at him. Just Jonathan Sims, his boyfriend. Martin got a bit of a thrill at the notion that it was the only title Jon could really claim at the moment. 

Martin kept his lips pressed to Jon’s knuckles and stared right back. 

“I don’t want to close my eyes,” Jon said. 

He chuckled and let their joined hands drop to the mattress. “I understand, but you might want to consider it. We haven’t slept since… we don’t actually know when.” 

“That nap at the Tate actually really helped,” Jon said, regaining a bit of distant wit. “I think I’m good to lay awake staring for another hour or so.”

“I promise I’ll be here when you wake up,” Martin said. “And then you can keep staring at me all you like.” 

He fell deep into sleep without knowing just how long Jon managed to keep himself up. 

Martin felt like praying thanks to a god he was certain didn’t exist when soft sunlight woke him to find Jon still asleep. He laid facing him, one hand curled up and wedged under his own cheek and the other stretching out toward Martin in the space between them. It gave him his own opportunity to stare uninterrupted in this placid grey light. Apparently, he’d forgotten to draw the blinds before they fell into bed. He couldn’t even imagine what time it was. 

Eventually, Jon woke with a small gasp, his eyes fluttering open to find Martin’s. He immediately broke into a drowsy grin, quickly followed by a wave of concern.

“We’re okay,” Martin hurried to say, covering his outstretched hand with his own.

“Right,” Jon whispered. “Good… morning?”

Martin chuckled. “I think so. I don’t even really know what time we went to sleep but it’s definitely a new day.”

Jon twisted their hands together and tugged, beckoning Martin closer. He leaned over and Jon wove his fingers into his hair, pulling him into a slow and tender kiss. Martin relished in it, reminded so much of tense, quiet mornings in the safehouse, so unsure each day when their time would be up. Jon just barely pulled back, resting with his nose tucked against Martin’s and his eyes softly closed. For a second, Martin thought he might have fallen back to sleep. 

“I don’t suppose you have anything here in the way of food,” Jon said, his drowsy sarcasm striking Martin as inordinately adorable. 

He scoffed. “God, anything here’s gonna be stale. And we don’t even know what’s going on out there.” 

“You’re right,” Jon said, looking inhospitable to the idea of approaching the outside world at all. 

“I’m sure I have tea at least,” he said. “No milk, though.”

“We’ll make do for now.” 

Martin managed to scrounge up some crackers and biscuits that were in fact stale, but hadn’t gone off just yet. “I guess it really has only been a few weeks, technically,” he said, setting them on the table. “They can’t be that bad.” 

He made two cups of tea, grateful for sugar but regretting the absence of cream. Opening the refrigerator would be a task for another time. 

He set a mug down in front of Jon, who followed his every move not unlike one of those awful little security cameras. He continued watching even as Martin sat down in the chair beside him and grabbed a biscuit. He met Jon’s gaze as he took a bite. 

“Staring again?”

Jon shook his head and diverted his eyes. “Sorry.” 

He rubbed his hands harshly over his face and left them there for a moment. “Seeing you unfettered by the intrusion of the Eye is just about the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he admitted, an airy quality to his voice. “It’s so gentle and normal and I don’t have to fight to see no more than you want me to, it’s just... It’s hard to look away when you’re just right there.” 

Martin huffed an awkward laugh, unsure how to respond to something like that. “Yeah, well, if you gorge yourself on all my radiant beauty now, you might get sick of it.”

“Never.” 

He uncovered his eyes and looked at him once more, this time with a bit of a disbelieving smile.

“You know, it feels different when you look at me now,” Martin muttered. 

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I could feel it, sort of. I mean, I could feel the Eye everywhere, but when it was coming from you, I could… It’s like I could feel you holding back. I knew how overbearing it could be if you didn’t try.”

Jon nodded. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t start with that,” Martin said, attempting a note of playfulness.

They had no idea what was going on outside, not exactly. They’d seen people on their long trek back to the flat, some stumbling through the streets towards home or sprinting and shouting the names of loved ones. It seemed people definitely remembered, but there was no way to know if that was universal or selective, or if anyone had any idea what really happened beyond their own personalized horrors. 

It would be extremely hard, Martin knew that. Just like he did at the cabin after the change, Martin had been spending the morning silently preparing in the back of his mind for how to drag Jon out there to start figuring out what came next. If he knew anything, it’s that Jon would want to cling to this semblance of peace they’d woken up in and avoid the mess outside for as long as he could. 

All of a sudden, Jon interrupted his train of thought.

“Martin, do you really want this?” 

His eyes were no longer glued to Martin, but instead down at a spot on the table, his hands curled faintly around the warm mug. His face had gone dark and dismal in the time Martin was lost in thought. 

“What?”

Jon let his eyes close for a moment, collecting the will to explain himself. “Do you want… me? Can you still see yourself…” He trailed off, his mouth agape. 

“Being with you?” Martin asked, incredulous. 

“Yes,” he breathed. “You could go anywhere. You could be with someone so much--” 

“Jon,” Martin said firmly, finding himself all at once on the brink of shouting. “ _Don’t_ you dare try to convince me not to be with you now. Christ, I--you _cannot_ be serious.” 

Jon sighed and shook his head, as if he just needed to reword his point to get Martin to agree. “We’ve been through a lot--”

“You don’t say.”

“Please, Martin,” he whined. “I--look. I just want to make sure you’ve considered that while it’s true we couldn’t have gotten through that without each other, if things feel differently on this side of it, that is to say… If I look different in the light of day, I would understand.”

“Jon,” he snapped.

“You’ve watched me do terrible things, Martin. Such truly terrible, awful things,” he said. “I can’t imagine what I look like to you now.” 

“Jon, look at me.”

He did without a hint of reluctance, though his expression looked as though he might regret it. 

“Do you want to know?” Martin said. 

“I--” 

He briskly got up and sank to his knees beside Jon’s chair, grabbing his hands in his own. Jon looked down at him almost with a warning in his eyes, begging him to withhold any trace of forgiveness or mercy that might be headed his way. 

“I see a man who was used as a weapon and then saved the world he was fashioned to kill,” Martin said. “And I love him so much that I can’t believe I got to keep him. I can’t believe we survived and now we get the chance to… to heal, Jon. Together.” 

Jon’s face twisted like he was in pain, and Martin simply gripped his hands tighter, pulling them closer to his chest. 

“It’s going to be really hard. But I want to do it with you. I _choose_ to do that with you.” 

“Martin…” he whispered.

“Please don’t, Jon,” Martin spat. “Please don’t argue with that. If you want something different, we can talk about it. If _you_ didn’t want to be with me,that would be a different story. But don’t tell me what I should want.”

“I want you to be safe and happy,” Jon said plainly. 

“I want to be safe and happy _with you,_ ” Martin insisted. 

“How do you know that’s possible?”

“We don’t until we try.”

Jon let out a distressed groan and tipped his head back, his hands slipping out of Martin’s grip and into his own lap. Martin stayed crouched at his side. His arms dropped to rest on his knees as he hung his head, searching for how to make Jon understand.

“Were you happy in Scotland?” he asked softly. He looked back up for a reaction. 

Jon dropped his chin, all but glaring at him, and then spoke as if admitting to a crime. 

“The happiest I have ever been.”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “Me too. Maybe we were running, and maybe we were ignoring a lot of stuff, but… I can’t help but think we could have that again some day. We could be that happy for real, for more than just a passing moment.” 

“Do you really think I deserve that, Martin?” Jon said gravely. 

“Do _I_ deserve it?” he countered. “Does anyone? I don’t know, Jon. It doesn’t fucking matter. I just--I just want it. I want to be happy with you and that’s all. If you really want _me_ to be happy, I’d suggest maybe taking a stab at that before you decide it’s best to just remove yourself from the equation.”

Jon stared forward and Martin could see the calculations taking place behind his eyes, the needless assessment of the risks of staying in Martin’s life. God, he loved him, but the man's guilt and self-worth were going to need some serious work. 

“It’s not going to be simple. We have a whole hell of a lot to talk about,” Martin said. “But I’m not going anywhere.” 

Jon’s eyes found his again and he could see something had broken in them, his staunch self-denial wilting just enough. 

“Alright,” Jon said softly.

“Yeah?” 

He nodded and promptly folded his arms around Martin’s neck, burying his face in his shoulder. Martin responded in kind, grabbing Jon around his waist almost hard enough to pull him out of the chair. They stayed fastened together like that for a long moment, until Martin felt his knees getting tired of crouching.

He gently lifted Jon’s head from his shoulder so he could balance their foreheads against each other.

“I love you so much,” he whispered. 

Jon gave a quiet whimper. “I love you, too. I really do.” 

Martin pulled Jon’s face to his and kissed him, feeling like it was the only sure thing in the unpredictable world outside these walls. He slowly lifted from his crouch, keeping a hold on Jon’s face all the way so their lips never parted as he stood. Eventually, Jon wrapped his arms around his middle and rested his face on his belly. 

“What do we do now?” 

“I really don’t know, Jon,” Martin said. “But we’ll figure it out.” He laced a hand into Jon’s hair, so mussed and tangled from sleeping on it wet and never brushing it. “Do you think… we should venture out?”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” Jon said.

“Yeah, me neither, but I didn’t go through all that just to starve to death in my flat.”

Jon managed to breathe a laugh, but his concerns weren’t assuaged so easily. “We have no idea what people know, or--or remember, or…” 

“And we’re not going to find out sitting in here. At the very least, we deserve a proper cup of tea.” 

He could practically feel Jon rolling his eyes as his shoulders bristled and his arms tightened around him. 

“Come on, love,” Martin cooed. The pet name rolled off his tongue in a way it so rarely had since the cabin. “Let’s go find some milk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about Jon pushing Martin down on the bed comes from a lil s4 fic I wrote called [have you no idea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592778). even though it’s not technically part of the series I declare anything I write takes place in the same universe 
> 
> speaking of my other fics, I hadn’t posted another chapter of this in a while bc I was [writing something else](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27599588) that’s part of this universe, it just became a little too long to be a chapter so I posted it separately. Go read if you haven’t seen it! 
> 
> Anyway, happy thanksgiving if you’re celebrating this week. i'm truly grateful for your support and kind words, the response to this fic has been a massive source of joy in my life this year and that’s not an exaggeration. Thank you <3 
> 
> and once again, peep my [shitty little twitter](https://twitter.com/pantsoflobster) and be my friend


	34. it's that time of year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three snapshots of the holidays through the years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a long one and it’s christmas bc i’m feeling the spirit 
> 
> (or maybe im trying to make myself feel the spirit by manufacturing sentimentality)

Jon swept in the door, clambering to tell Martin about his whirlwind of a day substitute teaching. He’d had an absolutely hellish class, a group of ornery twelve year-olds who seemed to know just how to work as a machine to take down unsuspecting substitutes. He’d held his own against them to the best of his ability, but they still left him dead exhausted as he dragged his feet across the threshold. As soon as the door shut behind him, the story dissolved in his mind. 

Music warbled from the living room, which wouldn’t have been unusual save for the type of music it seemed to be. The soaring strings, crooning vocals, and sentimental melodies… It was undeniably Christmas music. 

“Martin?” he called, shucking his coat and hanging it by the door. 

“In here.”

Jon followed the sound of his voice to their little living room, now illuminated by strands of fairy lights pinned along the edge of the tops of the walls. The room had been transformed since he left that morning by all sorts of knick knacks and adornments he’d never seen before in his life. 

Martin’s back was to him as he dug through a mysterious shopping bag on the coffee table. Jon took another step into the room, trying for an amused smile but letting the overwhelming confusion seep into it.

“What have you done?”

Martin turned around, his eyes full of eagerness yet tinged with a bit of guilt. “I decorated.” 

“For…?”

“You know… The holidays?” 

“Oh,” Jon said. He’d been half expecting Martin to say they were throwing an impromptu party. He’d forgotten some people actually decorate their own homes just for the sake of it. He’d never done it personally, not since he was with Georgie. 

His eyes traveled to the small, faux evergreen now standing in the corner, having displaced a side table and a houseplant. It was bare save for a little red bird perched at the very top. 

“All the tree toppers at the shop I went to were these big, garish angels or these awful Star of Bethlehem-y things,” Martin explained. “Except this one. I don’t love it, but the religious ones were worse, so I just went with it.” 

Jon peered at it and then over at Martin, bemusement creeping into his own smile. “How fantastically… secular.”

Jon continued to glance around at all of the other new additions to the room. Some garlands of pine fronds laid across the window sills, with small white lights twinkling inside. There were also some candles set in various spots, looking to be the battery operated sort with LED flames. Their small coffee table was now adorned with a red runner spanning the length and a display of pine cones and ribbon and more greenery nestled together at the center.

He completed his revolution to find Martin again, staring at him with his hands twisted together and a dour, concerned look on his face.

“It’s too much, isn’t it?” 

It suddenly became all too clear that his reaction hit Martin in a way he didn’t intend. He’d merely been taken aback, but of course, he’d conducted himself in a way Martin took to mean he’d done something wrong and made Jon uncomfortable. 

“No, no, I’m sorry, I…” He approached Martin and ran his hands down his arms until they rested gently at his wrists. “I’m just… I haven’t celebrated holidays in a while. And I didn’t grow up with Christmas, other than in school… And it reminds me of before, all these people that tried to draw me into their celebrations and they’re either dead or barely trust me anymore.” 

“Hey,” Martin said. “We can tone it back. I might have gone a little overboard.”

Jon looked around at the tasteful lights and the modest tree, synthetic and rigid standing barely taller than himself. He found himself smiling at the boxes of ornaments sitting on the sofa, waiting to be opened by both of them together. 

“No, Martin, you really didn’t.” 

“Are you sure?” he said, his brow deeply furrowed. “I get if it’s not your thing and I really should have checked first, but--”

“Martin,” Jon said, a tender whisper. “Thank you.” He pulled him close, prompting him to place his hands on Jon’s hips while he wrapped his arms around Martin’s neck. “It’s very festive. And homey. This feels normal, it feels like…” 

“I just thought it could be us,” Martin said, still in a hurry to explain himself. “What we do in the future. You know, I mean… I mean, of course I’ve always celebrated Christmas, but I don’t have that many warm, fuzzy memories, and I was hoping that we could do that. But I wasn’t thinking that you probably didn’t always do Christmas, and I got a bit excited about the idea of surprising you but I really should have talked to you about it. I’m--”

“Stop,” Jon said. “Please don’t apologize again. There’s no need. _I’m_ sorry I made you think I was upset. I promise, I’m not.” 

Martin eyed him skeptically for a moment. “Alright,” he said. 

“More than anything, it’s just that I find it hard to…” Jon trailed off, trying to collect what he meant to say. “I’m struggling with things like this. Things that feel like they’re supposed to be the first in a long parade of years ahead, it just sounds so… perfectly lovely and terrifying to believe in.” 

“Yeah,” Martin said. “I know what you mean. But that’s not a reason _not_ to do them.”

Jon sighed and smiled softly. “No, of course not.”

“So you’re… really okay with it?” Martin asked. “If there’s any traditions you had, any kind at all, I’d love to incorporate them.”

Jon laughed. “I don’t suppose you want to try my grandmother’s old recipe for halwa.”

Martin shrugged. “I would if you wanted me to.” 

“You might actually do a better job,” he muttered. “She was sort of rubbish at it.” 

“Well, I guess I understand where your cooking skills came from, then.” 

Jon leaned in with a laugh still on his lips, tugging Martin closer by his neck, but he resisted before they met in a kiss. 

“Wait,” Martin said. “There’s one more touch I wanted you to see. Look in the kitchen.” 

Jon raised an eyebrow with burgeoning suspicion. He turned and made his way toward the tiny kitchen, and when he found nothing particularly obvious, he glanced at Martin again.

“Look up.” 

Jon did, and found a small sprig of mistletoe hanging from the top of the doorway. 

“Really?”

“Listen, I thought it would be fun.”

Martin stepped up to him, meeting him in the doorway. Jon tried to keep his unimpressed scowl until Martin grabbed his shoulders, head cocked to the side. It was the smug grin that broke him, one that said, _You know you want to kiss me even if it is for a very silly tradition that you hate._ And god, he did. So he slid his hands around Martin’s waist and did his best to look put out by it. 

Martin dipped down to kiss him, almost overly so, bending Jon back just slightly and cradling his spine in his broad, sturdy hands. It was a bit theatrical, but Jon couldn’t find the wherewithal to feel foolish when all he felt was utterly in love as Martin handled him like the romantic lead in a black and white film.

Even so, when they pulled back, Jon made a show of raising a cynical eyebrow.

“So, what, we’re expected to do this every time we pass under this doorway?”

“Is it such a chore?” Martin said, returning his jibe with ease. “And honestly, how often do we both get caught under a doorway at the same time? It’s not as if it’ll be always.” 

“This is ridiculous,” Jon said. He paused a moment to stare into Martin’s eyes and came up short of any further smart retort. “God, I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Martin whispered. “Thanks for going along with this.” 

Jon took his cheek in his hand, stroking with his thumb. “I really don’t want you to think that’s all I’m doing,” he said. “I genuinely appreciate you bringing a little holiday spirit into our flat.” 

“And look, it doesn’t necessarily have to be Christmas by name, but I still want to exchange gifts and listen to Bing Crosby and walk with you in the snow, and--”

“I wouldn’t count on snow.”

Martin scoffed. “That’s a sort of decisive statement for someone who, last I checked, doesn’t have the whole of earthly knowledge available to him anymore.” 

“How many times have you seen it actually snow in London?” Jon said, with a roll of his eyes. “Like, stick-to-the-ground, cover-the-roads snow?” 

“Alright, spoilsport. Maybe not _that_ often.”

“And with the way the climate’s going--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Martin said. “Leave it to you to bring climate change into my cozy, wintry fantasies.” 

“I’m just saying.” 

The irritation quickly dropped away from Martin’s expression and he looked down at him with a wobbly smile. 

“What?”

“I’m just excited,” he said. He ducked his head down onto Jon’s shoulder, curving over him like a tree weighed down by snow. “I’m just excited to have a life with you.” 

And if nothing else had done it, that was all it took to melt Jon’s heart. He wrapped his arms tighter around Martin’s back. “Me too.” 

*

“Alright, you,” Martin said, checking the time. “It’s already way too late. You’ve got to get to bed.” 

Ellen stuck her lip out in an exaggerated pout. “But Daddy--”

“Ah, ah,” he said. “None of that. Come on.” 

Jon was sat on the arm of Martin’s chair, from where he directed his gaze down at their daughter in an attempt to bolster Martin’s authority. Ellen jumped up from her spot on the floor near the tree and ran to stand before them, set to make a direct appeal. 

“But you guys are going to stay up late talking to Daisy and Basira and I’m going to miss it,” she whined.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Daisy said, turning Ellen’s head toward the sofa. “Basira and I are headed home to bed not too long after you. I’m an old lady, now. No hanging around into the wee hours of the morning for me.” 

Ellen squinted at her, her little head cocked to the side. “I don’t believe you.” 

“Now, why would I lie?” she said, with the even tone of a wily investigator. “And on tonight of all nights. Wouldn’t want Santa to hear me lying on Christmas Eve.”

Ellen rolled her eyes, a hand on her hip displaying an inordinate amount of sass for one so small. 

“Daisy, I _know_ Santa isn’t real.”

She leaned towards Ellen conspiratorially, arms resting on her knees. “Oh, do you, now?” 

“Yes,” she said, matter of fact. “I’ve known since June.” 

“Read something suspicious in a book this summer,” Martin explained. “She confronted us about it and we had the talk. So, now she’s part of the Big Kids Club like the rest of us.” 

Jon slid to his feet to shut down any more stalling and gently squeezed Ellen’s shoulders, walking her towards the doorway that opened into the hall. 

“Go on and brush your teeth and then come down to say goodnight, darling,” he said, ushering her off with a hand on her back. She bounded up the stairs to get herself ready for bed and Jon returned to his spot on Martin’s chair. 

“Well, thank god she’s over that,” Basira said.

“Over what?” Martin asked. 

“I’ve always found all the Santa shit so weird,” she said with a small shudder. 

“Yeah, well, it is but it was also rather fun, to be honest. We’re a bit sad it’s over,” Martin said. 

“I mean, how long could it have gone on?”

“She’s only just turned eight,” Martin argued. “I sort of thought we could drag it out at least one more year.” 

Basira shook her head. “She’s too smart. She was always going to figure it out on her own somehow, with the amount she reads.” 

“It _is_ a bit sad, though,” Jon added. 

“I guess,” she said with a halfhearted shrug. 

“Really,” he insisted. “I’ll miss that look on her face in the morning, like real magic happened right here in her house and there was proof of it right before her eyes…” He trailed off and shook his head, trying to toss away the passing indulgence in nostalgia. 

Basira stifled a laugh. “Do you even know what you sound like sometimes?”

“What?”

“Sometimes I swear you’ve been kidnapped and replaced,” Basira said.

Jon scowled. “You should know that’s a very not-funny thing to say.” 

“Okay, but you say things that the Jon I first met would rather swallow nails than be heard saying.” 

“I’m proud to say I’ve changed a bit in fifteen years, Basira,” he spat. 

“You are absolutely obsessed, Jon. That kid has you wrapped around her finger.” 

He scoffed and leaned back. “She’s my daughter and I believe I have every right to be wrapped around her finger. I really don’t know what you expect.” 

“Do you give this kind of grief to Georgie and Melanie?” Martin asked, arms crossed defiantly. He could never resist throwing himself into a friendly spar. 

Basira shrugged. “We don’t have to be around them all the time.”

“You don’t _have_ to be around us,” Martin pointed out. 

“No one is stopping you from denying our invitations,” Jon added. 

Martin tapped a finger to his cheek theatrically. “You’d think...” he said, then feigning a revelation and grabbing Jon’s arm. “Jon, have you ever thought--it almost seems like Basira _likes_ Ellen and cares about seeing her, particularly on special occasions because she never seems to have any other plans on holidays or her birthday!” 

“Martin, you just might be onto something,” he marveled. “But that wouldn’t make sense, because Basira hates children unequivocally.” 

Basira rolled her eyes with the most irritated of groans, met with some snickering from Daisy’s direction. 

“Okay. Fine. Maybe I _care_ about Ellen, because she’s--she’s _yours_ , but that doesn’t change the way I feel about kids. I don’t like kids, no matter who they are.” 

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Basira, you can’t just say things like that to parents.” 

“Look, I--I like _her_ just fine,” she said, tossing a hand flippantly toward the stairs. “I don’t know how everyone always finds a way to make me sound like a monster whenever this comes up.” 

“Maybe because you’re saying to your friends’ faces you don’t like their child.”

Basira regarded Daisy with a scowl. “I didn’t say that. I just don’t like children. It’s not a crime.” 

The thing was, Ellen _really_ liked Basira. This became clearer and clearer every time they got together. They figured it was something about the way Basira carried herself, like someone that couldn’t be messed with if you tried. Ellen always gravitated towards, as Melanie often put it, women who could kick someone’s ass for her if she needed it. Not that she ever would need it. She was shaping up to be a wildly independent kid, wickedly intelligent with a burgeoning sharp tongue, growing into an indistinguishable mix of Jon and Martin’s different flavors of wit. 

Basira knew Ellen admired her. She’d warmed up to it, even. She didn’t stoop down and lift Ellen off the ground into a crushing hug like Daisy did whenever she saw her, but she’d recently started to reach over and ruffle her hair, almost as if she couldn’t have been bothered before Ellen was tall enough to reach without crouching a bit. 

Before long, tiny, eager footsteps came bounding back down the stairs. Ellen appeared changed into her festive pajamas, all red and printed with a small white tree pattern. 

“Don’t you worry, little one,” Daisy said. “We’re leaving as soon as you go upstairs. You won’t miss a thing.” 

Ellen seemed sufficiently satisfied with this promise and went to give her a hug. 

“Merry Christmas, Daisy,” she muttered, muffled by Daisy’s jacket. 

“Come here, you,” she said, attempting to hoist Ellen into her lap but settling for slinging her onto the sofa between herself and Basira. Ellen fell into the cushion with a giggle. “You’ve got to stop growing, you know that? I can hardly throw you around like I used to.”

“I can’t stop growing, Daisy,” Ellen pointed out, very astute. 

“Well, then. Not sure what we’re going to do about that.” 

“Maybe you’re just getting weaker,” Basira said, with a smug little smile.

Daisy glanced over at her with a glint in her eye. “Shut up.” 

Ellen then leaned over and twined both her arms around one of Basira’s, slumping her head against her.

“Merry Christmas, Basira.”

She awkwardly patted Ellen’s knee. “You too,” she said. Ellen held fast and nuzzled her arm with her head, content to be allowed to cuddle with Basira for a prolonged moment. 

Basira’s mouth curved up almost imperceptibly and her gaze caught on Jon as he watched them with amusement from his perch. She quickly averted her eyes and he laughed at the absurdity of her staunch resistance. 

“Come on, darling,” he said. “Up to bed. We’ll be up in just a minute.”

Ellen slid off the couch and started toward the stairs in a bit of a run that seemed to betray too much energy for a child heading to sleep. 

After they walked Daisy and Basira out and locked up, Martin went to start quietly gathering the presents they’d secreted away throughout the month. Even though the jig was up this year, he’d insisted that they continue to wait until she’d gone to bed to put presents under the tree for as many years as they could get away with it. No reason to drop the whole performance just yet. 

Jon finished the washing up in the kitchen and then stopped by Ellen’s room to say goodnight on his way to theirs. Her light was still on and she was nestled under her covers reading. 

“Did you have a nice evening, darling?” 

She nodded, head tucked behind the book. He didn’t recognize it as one of the ones they’d gotten her this year. 

“What’s that you’re reading?”

Ellen poked her nose over the top. “The book Basira gave me.”

“When’d she give you that? I didn’t notice she gave you something.” 

She finally lowered the book to reveal a slightly confused expression. “She took me into the kitchen after dinner when everyone else was in the living room and gave it to me, acting all weird like it was a bad thing. But the book’s not bad, I promise. It’s just a book. It’s about magic. She said she liked it when she was little.”

Jon chuckled. “It’s probably pretty special, then. I imagine she didn’t want anyone giving her grief for showing any sort of affection.” 

Ellen’s little brow knit in confusion. “Why not?”

“Because Basira can be very silly.” 

Now that Ellen was reading far above her age, Basira had found something she could just almost level with her on. Ellen had discerning taste when it came to books, not quite as bad as Jon when he was a child, but she read everything Basira gave her with voracity, always first in line before any books her dads gave her. Whether it was actually that Basira’s selections were spot on or simply an extension of Ellen’s quiet admiration was anyone’s guess. 

“Don’t stay up too late,” Jon said out of obligation.

Ellen simply shrugged, her eyes glued back to the page. 

“Goodnight, darling. I love you.” 

“Night, Daddy.”

He shut the door gently and hurried into the bedroom to tell Martin all about Basira’s special little clandestine gift. 

*

“Can someone please tell me,” Martin said with a gust of melodrama, glancing around the kitchen as if there was anyone other than Jon and Ellen to appeal to. “What _exactly_ is the point of Christmas when your daughter is twenty years old and refuses to sleep at your house on Christmas Eve? _What_ is the point when your only child doesn’t want to wake up in her childhood bed on Christmas morning, hm? She’s twenty, it’s not as if she’s thirty-five. I don’t think I’m being particularly unreasonable, here.”

Jon and Ellen glanced sideways at each other, seated in the barstools at the counter while Martin scrubbed the contents of the sink with increasing vigor as he got more and more heated. Neither could suppress their laughter at him once they caught each other’s eye. Martin then zeroed his ranting in on Jon. 

“Oh, yes, very funny,” he said. “Isn’t it just hilarious how our daughter is all of a sudden too old to stay over on Christmas?” 

“I thought I was usually the one bemoaning the inescapable passage of time,” Jon said. 

“Yeah! You are,” Martin cried. “That’s why I can’t believe you’re so unaffected by this one.” 

Jon shook his head, waving a hand at the situation before them. “I’m not unaffected, I’m just… It’s her choice, Martin. Why does it matter where she sleeps tonight?”

“Because it’s--” His words dissolved into a frustrated groan. “It doesn’t, I just hadn’t considered that she now has somewhere else to go on Christmas Eve. It’s the first time. I’m not used to it.” 

“Look,” Ellen said. “I’ll come back for breakfast. I’ll be back before you’re even awake.” 

“If you’re coming back that early, why would you even leave?” he whined, waving a dish towel around wildly. 

“Dad,” she said at length. 

They stared at each other for a moment and then Martin let some of the irritation drain out of his posture as he let his shoulders slump, leaving behind only desperation.

“What’s so interesting at your flat that you can’t indulge your old dads for _one night_ , Christmas Eve, mind you? Your flatmates are all gone, you’ve got clothes here, we’ve got extra toothbrushes, whatever you’d need.” 

Ellen stared off into the middle distance for a moment, her hands twisted together on the counter. Finally, she threw her head back with a short groan.

“Okay, look,” she said, breaking her silence. “It’s that--it’s silly, but I… I have this gift for you, okay? And I forgot to bring it over tonight and I didn’t want to tell you because I just really wanted it to be a surprise. I want to give it to you on Christmas and it’s--I just really want to. It’s important to me that I do.”

At this, Martin’s resolve broke and his expression melted into a bit of remorse. Jon’s brow raised and he took a moment to scan her face, making sure she wasn’t still hiding some other reason for wanting to go back, any trace of a need for concern. He found nothing, just a sincere desire to have her plan go exactly as she’d decided. 

“Oh,” Martin said. “Oh, well that’s very sweet, love.” 

She shifted in her seat. “It’s nothing, you know… It’s nothing big, I just… I’m excited to give it to you.” 

“You know it doesn’t make it any less special if you gave it to us another day--”

“I know,” she cut in. “I just--I know.” 

Jon looked at his husband. “Martin,” he said gently. “I think you might want to give it a rest.” 

He cocked his head and let out a resigned sigh. “You’re probably right.” 

“I’m really sorry I’m not staying over,” Ellen said. 

“It’s alright, love,” Martin said with a nod. “Sorry I went a bit mental about it. It just does my head in sometimes how old you are.” 

“It’s not like I’m thirty-five,” she repeated, lightly mocking his tone from earlier. Martin managed to crack a smile at that, though he still flicked a bit of water at her for her cheek.

They walked her to the door and watched as she shrugged on her coat, preparing to step out into the frigid night. 

“At least let us pay for a ride,” Martin offered. 

“I’ve got it,” Ellen argued, phone already in hand.

“I’m just going to call you a ride,” Martin said, reaching into his pocket for his own phone.

“Dad, seriously, don’t worry about it.” 

“Darling,” Jon laughed, grabbing Martin by the arm and tugging him back. “Leave her be.” 

“Fine,” Martin huffed. “But you’ll be back first thing, yeah? 

“Bright and early,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“And let us know as soon as you get in your flat. It should be quiet out there, but you never know what kind of weirdos are about.”

“Yes, Dad,” she said, a bit of a smile creeping in. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

The door shut behind her and Martin let out a massive sigh before turning around to face Jon with a conflicted, dismal glaze. 

“It’s just so weird,” he said. “Not having her in the house on Christmas Eve. For the first time in twenty years, it’s just us.” 

Jon laid his hands on his shoulders and pulled him towards the stairs. “I know, darling. It is strange. But it’s often just us these days, you know.” 

“I know,” he grumbled. “But…”

“But it’s Christmas, yes,” Jon said. 

Martin looked at him miserably. “The years are getting on, aren’t they?” 

Jon nodded and pulled him into a hug. “They are.” 

Without breaking the embrace, Jon backed up to the bottom stair and stepped up on it, something he often did to alleviate their height difference and to make Martin laugh. It made him just a hair taller than Martin, allowing him to kiss the top of his head with ease before leaning in to kiss him on the lips.

“Let’s go to bed, darling.”

Once Martin had started to really go in on this whole flat business this evening, Jon tried to hold back his own sentimental gripes about having an adult child at Christmas. He had a long, agonizing list for certain. He also had the sense to know when it was his turn to appear the sensible parent while Martin went off the deep end about something. But the truth was, it was definitely depressing walking by Ellen’s dark, empty bedroom on a night that had for most of her life been one of varying levels of quiet, festive magic.

Even the last few years since she started university, she’d spent her whole holiday at home with them. This was the first year she lived in a flat independent from the university, so since her term ended, she’d done a lot more going back and forth between their house and Central London. 

Of course, it made the whole time of year feel different. Jon was, quite frankly, trying not to dwell on it for once, especially when it seemed to be hitting Martin so hard. He tried to see it as a good thing, a different kind of magic than the kind they got to experience through her eyes when she was little. It _was_ a kind of magic, he thought, watching her change and learn and grow into a human being so strong and smart and skilled in her own right. As they laid down to sleep in their quiet house, he was grateful for that alone. 

Jon rose early in the morning as usual and checked his phone, finding a message Ellen sent them only moments before saying she’d already gotten in a cab with her gift in tow. He leaned over and kissed Martin on the cheek, making him stir in the tight cocoon of warmth he’d drawn around himself to fight the draft of their old house. Martin was graced with incredible natural body heat, so it could be rather difficult to drag him out of bed on winter mornings. 

“Good morning, darling,” Jon whispered. Martin merely stirred again, drawing a deep breath through his nose and keeping his eyes squeezed shut. “Ellen’s on her way. She’ll give you hell if you’re not up by the time she arrives after all your carrying on last night.” 

Martin huffed a sleepy laugh, still resisting opening his eyes. 

“Be down in a minute, I promise,” he mumbled.

Jon kissed him again and began to disentangle himself from the blankets. “I’ll start breakfast.” 

Before long, Jon heard the front door click open and Ellen made her way into the kitchen with a backpack slung over her shoulder. 

“What’s in there?” Jon said hopefully, pushing a cup of tea her way. 

“Your gift,” she said, followed by a chagrined eye roll. “And I packed to stay for a couple of days.”

Jon smirked at her put-on reluctance. “Dad will be very thrilled.” 

“All that and he’s not even up yet?” she said, glancing around the kitchen and finding no sign of Martin. 

“He’s coming,” Jon assured her. “I told him to get down here before you arrived.” 

Martin soon made his way downstairs and they shared a hearty breakfast before moving into the living room, gathering by the tree. They made their way through the small pile of gifts they’d amassed for Ellen and for each other, a joyful warmth filling the room. Eventually, a lull hit and Ellen shifted nervously. 

“Can I give you your gift now?” she asked. 

“You’d better, if it’s the whole reason you couldn’t stay here last night,” Martin said, with feigned bitterness. 

Ellen huffed a goodhearted sigh and went to her backpack to pull it out, standing strangely in front of them both where they sat on the sofa before she handed it over. 

“It’s for both of you, I had--it’s not, you know--oh, just open it.” 

She gave Jon the wrapped parcel, a broad flat thing wrapped impeccably with some rustic red twine tied around it. 

Martin leaned in with his arm around Jon’s back to watch as he tore open the paper to reveal a rather large frame, containing four smaller pictures arranged two by two in a grid.

The top right and bottom left panels were both filled by photographs, the first being one they’d rediscovered and sent to Ellen some months ago of the two of them much younger, mere weeks after the world returned. It was probably the most youthful photo of them together in existence, Jon sitting in Martin’s lap, encircling his neck with his arms, both of them laughing without a care in the world. 

The other photograph was much more recent, showing the three of them on an evening in Brighton this past summer, all squeezed onto a bench in Melanie and Georgie’s back garden. The bench had been meant for no more than two, but Ellen had attempted to wedge herself in, ending up squished half between them and half on both their laps. The photo caught all three of their faces mid-hysteria, Ellen making herself laugh with her own antics while Jon and Martin complained about the invasion through joyous grins. 

The other two panels held clean line art drawings that, though sparse and simple, somehow captured an unmistakable warmth that felt like home. Beside the recent photo was a drawing of their house, the modest, narrow thing it was, looking just like all the others on their street but unmistakably theirs from the tiny silhouette of the cow figurine in the kitchen window, the vines crawling up the trellis beside the door, and the elegant house number below the outdoor light. 

The older photo above was paired with a similar drawing, an illustration of the cabin in Scotland. 

Jon’s eyes immediately began to prickle. “Oh, El,” he heard Martin whisper over his shoulder. 

They’d taken her there a few years ago, just before she began university, a trip to Scotland doubling as a family getaway and an opportunity to show her the strange little place where their love first bloomed. 

“Who did this art?” Martin asked, incredulous as he skimmed his fingers across the glass, over the image of the safehouse. 

“A friend of mine,” she said. “Adrian. They’re an art student. Obviously.” 

Jon couldn’t stop looking at the thing, still grappling with the sheer thoughtfulness their daughter had to possess to come up with something like this. A silent moment passed before Ellen spoke up again. 

“I wanted to do something that, um…” She paused and shook her head, refocusing her gaze on them. “You’ve shared a lot of things with me that I know you wish you could just hide away instead. But I’m much happier knowing who you are and what you’ve been through and how far you’ve come and that’s… I wanted to give you something that celebrated that.”

Jon could feel tears silently streaming down his own cheeks and knew his family was doing him a favor by not addressing it. Finally, he tore his eyes away from the gift and looked at his daughter. 

“This is, ah…” He took a breath to steady himself. “This is incredible. I don’t know what to say.” 

She broke into a grin, visibly trying to tamp it down just as quickly as it spread, not wanting to look too overly pleased with herself. “I’m glad you like it.” 

Jon set the frame down on the table and opened his arms. “Come here, darling.”

She came to sit beside him so he could engulf her in a crushing hug and Martin threw his arms around the both of them from Jon’s other side. 

“I truly don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he muttered, pressing his lips to her hair. 

“Stop it, Dad, it’s not about me,” she said. She covertly wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

“Of course it is,” he whispered. “Thank you, darling. This is unbelievably thoughtful.” 

She lifted her head from his shoulder so she could raise an eyebrow at Martin. “Aren’t you glad I went back to get this last night?” she said, a weak jibe watered down by the emotion in the room. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Martin said reluctantly, dabbing at his own eyes. “God, you know your kid’s getting old when she starts giving you gifts that make you cry.” 

Ellen giggled and fell back into Jon’s side. He tightened his arm around her and rested his head on top of hers. 

Jon cleared his throat to keep his voice even when he spoke. “I suppose that’s a fair trade off,” he said. “Too old to stay over on Christmas but old enough to know how to play with our emotions with a simple series of four pictures.”

Martin chuckled and Ellen sighed. “I’m not too old to stay over on Christmas,” she admitted. “I just forgot my stupid gift. If I’d remembered to bring it last night, there wouldn’t have been an issue.” 

“Well, I’ll hold you to that next year,” Martin said. 

She had no comeback for this, just a moment of silence followed by a quiet, “I love you guys.”

Martin’s arms tightened around the two of them. “We love you, El.”

“So much,” Jon added. 

That afternoon, they hung Ellen’s gift above the mantle. It took some rearranging of the current photos on display, but it was worth the strategic chore to have that new frame front and center. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen their life is just really filled with joy and love, I don’t know what to tell you I don’t make the rules
> 
> I really love the idea of daisy developing a vibe of your weird old gay welsh aunt
> 
> almost forgot to plug my [shitty little twitter](https://twitter.com/pantsoflobster)
> 
> I can't stop calling it that it's just what it is


	35. your name on my tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion of names leading up to their marriage.

Martin doused in sunlight was one of Jon’s favorite sights. It simply amplified his natural warm glow, rendering him practically radiant. He couldn’t understand how everyone in this park who passed them by didn’t stop in their tracks and stare at his fiancé for at least a few seconds, if not longer. Jon didn’t have nearly the same amount of self-control. 

They were laid out on a blanket in the grass with books and where Martin seemed rather engrossed in his, Jon was a bit distracted. He laid with his head cushioned on Martin’s soft thigh, a common position they took on their park layabouts. Martin held his book in one hand and rested the other in the middle of Jon’s chest, a gentle bracing presence. He hadn’t looked at his own book in a few minutes, instead alternating between staring up at Martin’s placid, lovely face and at the ring on Martin’s finger shining in the sun, the one he’d put there only a few months prior. 

Jon gave up the pretense and set his book to the side, weaving both of his hands around the one laid on his chest.

“Martin?”

He lowered his book as well as his gaze. “Yeah, love?” 

“I would like to talk to you about something,” Jon said. 

Martin’s brow raised in concern, which made him realize how dire his declaration had sounded. 

“It’s nothing bad,” he hurried to say. “Just something that's been on my mind.” 

Martin visibly relaxed, to Jon’s relief. “Go on then. What’s up?”

With great effort, Jon sat himself up to face him, crossing his legs and scooting close. He pulled Martin’s hand, the one with the ring, into his lap between his own once he was settled. 

“Have you thought about… our last names?” he asked. “When we get married?”

Martin gave a mildly surprised laugh that dissolved into an easy smile. “Yeah, a bit,” he said. “Though I assumed it was kind of obvious.”

“You did?”

“Well, doesn’t Blackwood-Sims sound objectively better than Sims-Blackwood? It just has a better rhythm and…” Martin then took notice of Jon’s uncertain expression. “Did you--oh. _Oh_. You weren’t thinking we’d combine our names.”

He gave a sheepish smile. “No.” 

“That’s perfectly alright, too,” Martin said quickly. “I shouldn’t have assumed you’d want to change your name. I’m sorry.” 

Jon tensed. He really thought this would have been clearer. “Well, that’s not exactly what I had in mind, either. The opposite, even.” 

“I’m not following,” Martin said, with a hesitant brow raised.

Jon took a breath. He hadn’t felt particularly nervous about this conversation until now. He thought _his_ idea was the obvious choice and that Martin may very well be on the same page. Apparently, he was wrong. 

“I thought…” Jon began slowly. “I thought that maybe I would take yours.” 

Martin stared at him. “You would take mine? What, my last name?”

“Yes, and yours would stay the same. Obviously. We’d be Jonathan and Martin Blackwood.” Martin chuckled at the sound of it and Jon’s brow furrowed. “Is that silly?” 

“No, no, I mean--it’s just a bit of a surprise, I wouldn’t think--I just never thought that would be the way you’d want to go about it.” 

“I know it feels a bit patriarchal, but I have considered our options and it’s the one I prefer.”

Martin’s hand twisted in Jon’s to catch his fingers in his own, brushing his thumb over them to soothe their fidgeting. “Do you mind if I ask… why?” 

To be fair, Jon hadn’t thought about the “why” in great detail. He knew he didn’t want to keep his own name, but every time he mulled over the other options, any hyphenation just didn’t feel as perfectly safe and lovely as Blackwood did on its own, as if Jon’s own name somehow poisoned the sound of Martin’s. He was certain if he told Martin as much, he’d disagree wholeheartedly, so he took a moment to search for a way to phrase it. 

“It’s just that… Jonathan Sims. That’s my name, that’s who I am, but… It’s also who I was. That’s the name I said on all those damn bloody tapes, _that_ was the name of the Archivist. This suddenly feels like an opportunity to not be him anymore, to just be the version of me who came after, who just loves you and lives with you and is someone entirely different from… from _him_.”

As expected, Martin regarded him with pity. “You know, you’re definitively _not_ him anymore, right?”

“Yes, but--”

“You don’t have to get rid of your last name to have become someone new. You already are.”

“No,” Jon groaned. “But it just feels sufficiently symbolic.” 

“Alright,” Martin said, with a squeeze of his hand. “You can make any change you need to. I trust you on that.” 

“Well, thank you, but it is _your_ name,” Jon pointed out. “So it’s not entirely my call to make.” 

Martin laughed at this and his eyes went tender and thoughtful, searching Jon’s face for something. 

“You seem like you’ve thought about this a lot,” Martin said softly. 

Jon nodded. “I have.”

“And you’re really sure?”

“I am,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about this since the moment I knew I wanted to marry you.” 

Jon appreciated the flush this brought to Martin’s face and the soft, dismissive eye roll that followed. Once he recovered, he said, “You know, some people come up with an entirely new last name.”

“Seems like a lot of work,” Jon muttered, earning a chuckle. 

Martin looked at him for a long moment, and Jon fixed his eyes firmly on his in case there was still any doubt he was serious. 

“You’ve really settled on this, huh?” he asked one more time.

“Yes,” Jon said. “As long as you’re amenable, of course.” 

“Jon, I’d be glad to have you take my name if that’s what you really want,” he said. 

Even though he’d had no real concern that Martin might say no, the well-stated approval still nurtured a blooming warmth in Jon’s chest. “I’m glad.” 

“I’m realizing I don’t feel particularly passionate about any way we do it,” Martin said. “As long as it’s not Sims-Blackwood.”

Jon scrunched up his nose in distaste. “It just doesn’t flow right, does it?” 

“It doesn’t, it’s just unwieldy,” he complained. “Far too choppy.” 

Their quiet laughter died down into another easy silence. Martin cast his eyes down to the ground in thought. Jon kept that hand of his captured in his own, staring down at his ring to give him some privacy. 

“You know, the more I think about it, it kind of changes it for me, too,” Martin said eventually. “In a good way, I mean. It won’t just be the name I was born with, carrying with me this nonexistent family legacy I don’t really care about. It’ll be the name I share with you. And I’d like that, to share it with you.”

Jon’s heart fluttered. “I’d be very grateful if you would.” He was sure he looked utterly, foolishly lovesick, but couldn’t care less at the moment.

“Come here,” Martin said, and Jon crawled eagerly to kneel by his side. He cradled Jon’s neck with a soft, warm hand and pulled him into a kiss, the sort of tender gesture that still sent a chill down his spine with the sheer amount of love it carried. At the risk of feeling too exposed on such a crowded day in the park, Jon pushed forward and leaned over him, gently laying Martin back along the blanket in the grass. To think this man, this beautiful, warm, sunlit man below him had not only decided to marry him but to gladly lend Jon his last name so that they became one… Jon kissed him with tender fervor, hoping it would speak his gratitude. 

He eventually slid off to lay at Martin’s side, propped up on an elbow and gazing at him. Martin looked right back, scrunching up his face as if suddenly very suspicious. 

“You really want to be Jonathan Blackwood?” he asked again. 

“I do. How many times do you have to ask before you believe me?” 

“And that’ll make us ‘the Blackwoods’? God, how domestic is that?” 

Jon chuckled. “Very.” 

Martin let out a sigh and flopped his head back in the grass, a brilliant smile rivaling the sun playing at his mouth. “Fine. God,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I just never imagined I’d be giving my name off to someone like some--some--”

“Like some common straight man?” Jon offered with exaggerated distaste. 

“Yes!” Martin cried. “Exactly, if I’m being honest.” 

Jon laughed, pleased by the type of crisis this was bringing on. “Well, you can blame me on this one,” he said, scooting over as close as he could get, leaving just inches between their faces. 

“Christ, next thing I know, you’re going to be telling me you want a house with a white picket fence.” 

“I think our suburban terraced house takes care of that in full,” Jon said. 

“Yeah,” Martin said. “Wow, we’re really going for it, aren’t we?”

“What’s that?”

“The full domestic life,” he said, spreading a hand out in the air. “Sure you don’t want to forget all this, sell our house, get fake passports, and travel the world? Get into some trouble before we settle down?” 

Jon gave him a disparaging look. “I think we’ve truly had enough trouble for a lifetime.”

Martin shrugged. “Well then,” he said, with melodramatic resignation. “I guess it’s just the wedding and the mortgage and the weekly grocery trips for us, then.” 

“To be fair, I truly never imagined I’d be someone who thinks that all sounds like the loveliest way to spend my days,” Jon said, reaching up to trace a faint line over Martin’s cheek. “Yet here we are.” 

“Maybe Jonathan Blackwood’s hopes and dreams are a bit different than Jonathan Sims’ were.” 

“I think you might be right about that,” he whispered before he closed the short distance between them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im low on ideas rn folks, if anyone has any requests.... i may or may not use them
> 
> don't forget to follow my [shitty little twitter](https://twitter.com/pantsoflobster)


	36. carry me home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon might complain about Martin picking him up, but it's no secret that he loves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first one takes place about a week after the one where Georgie and Martin got coffee, second one is their wedding night, third is when Ellen is like 4 or 5

Many of their evenings wound up like this these days, tangled desperately in each others’ arms on the sofa, not unlike teenagers who couldn’t be bothered to keep their hands off each other in lieu of a good reason. They hadn’t gotten over basking in the freedom to simply _be_ , the novelty of quiet night after quiet night as it had been for the last few months. 

It was frankly irresistible, having Martin just right there beside him like that every single night. Jon couldn’t help unraveling in his embrace whenever he got the chance, pressing his mouth to any sweet bit of him he could find, showing him just how much he adored him and relishing in the happy sighs they traded between their lips. It felt like their days at the safehouse but better, with a clear horizon bereft of the dread that loomed over them during that time. 

Of course, in the back of Jon’s mind, there was still the persistent little fear that at any moment, Martin might be ripped from his grasp by some lurking force unseen. So though he knew it was morbid and knew it was irrational, he still always kissed him like it could be their last.

Jon had planted himself astride Martin’s lap, pressing into him and draped over him, fingers tugging ever so lightly at his soft curls as their mouths moved together. They alternated between fierce, biting exchanges and lazy, languid motions, pausing to laugh and make taunting or loving remarks in between. Martin’s arms were wrapped firmly around Jon’s back and suddenly, this reminded him of something, something he didn’t fully appreciate the first time and would very much like to try again. 

He reluctantly pulled away from Martin’s lips and sat back a bit, finding curious eyes. He could see the shape of a question forming, so he quickly spoke before Martin could ask if there was something wrong. 

“Do you remember last week when--when, er…” He trailed off into a pause, his face warming unpleasantly. 

Martin looked back at him with patience, his hand gliding up Jon’s back to weave into his hair. “When what?” 

“When you tried to pick me up and carry me to bed?”

Martin snickered, remembering the incident. “‘Tried’ being the operative word. I would have succeeded if it weren’t for your fidgeting.”

“Yes, well, I… I actually think I liked it.” 

Martin blinked at him. “Yeah?”

The dazed look on his face emboldened Jon, casting out some of his own embarrassment, and he leaned in for a brief, teasing kiss. “Yes. I’d like--that is, if you’d want to do that again, I wouldn’t put up such a fight.” 

Amusement lit up Martin’s eyes and trickled down into his smile. “You want me to pick you up?” 

“Um… Yes.”

He grinned even wider, surging forward to kiss Jon again, tightening his hold around his back. He positioned his feet steady on the ground and Jon responded by wrapping his legs around his waist eagerly, a sense of acute anticipation sending an unexpected chill down his spine. 

And then Martin lifted him like it was nothing. A small gasp leaked out of Jon’s lungs as he clung to his neck and stared blankly into his eyes.

“Shall I take you to bed?” Martin said, a bit tender, a bit teasing. 

In lieu of an answer, Jon couldn’t resist grabbing Martin’s face between both hands and attempting to kiss him silly as he began to move through the flat. 

Martin giggled against his lips and pulled his head back. “I can’t see, love. I’m going to run you into the wall.”

Jon then directed his efforts elsewhere, namely at Martin’s throat. His arms were so tight around him, so firm and safe, and while Jon didn’t fool himself into thinking Martin was incapable of losing his grip, he felt a sense of implicit trust in this man who held him in so many different ways.

Martin walked him through the bedroom door and softly laid him down on the duvet, quickly joining him on the bed by throwing himself on top of him. Before Jon could say a word, his mouth was once again occupied under the devoted attention of Martin’s. He heard a soft moan escape his own lips and Martin lifted his head, gazing down at him all too pleased with himself. 

“How was that?” he asked with a playful little smile. 

“I can’t believe you can just do that,” Jon breathed, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

Martin laughed, brushing the stray locks of hair out of Jon’s face with gentle fingers. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re a rather slight man.” 

“Yes, but I _am_ a grown man, and you can just--” Jon cut himself off with a huff. “You can just lift me like a bag of feathers.” 

Martin rolled off him and onto his own side of the bed, staring at him propped up on an elbow. 

“You really like it?”

“I… honestly do,” he said, eagerly reaching out to splay his hand across Martin’s chest. “I can’t imagine letting another living soul lift my feet an inch off the ground, but you, I--I just like it.”

“Well, I’m honored.” 

There was something about it Jon couldn’t put his finger on, some undefined feeling still needling at the back of his mind. Perhaps if he started trying to name it, he’d reach it eventually. 

“It’s so--that you can just pick me up and--it makes me feel so…” He didn’t know why he thought trying to verbalize it would help him. “It’s just so--oh, I don’t know. I don’t know how to describe it.” 

Martin raised an eyebrow. “I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘hot’.” 

Jon felt his face flush again. “Well, yes, but it’s not--it’s not like--” 

“I know it’s not like that,” Martin said, quick to soothe his unease with a hand over Jon’s. “It doesn’t have to be. I just mean you find it exciting that your boyfriend can lift you like a bag of feathers.” 

Jon’s mouth hung open slightly as he considered this. _Exciting_ was exactly what it was. It was exciting that he loved and was loved by a man strong enough to do that, who he trusted with things he’d never trusted anyone else in the world with. He figured there was some innate sense of feeling protected knowing this, the physical comfort of Martin’s large stature in such stark comparison to his own. 

“Well, I suppose you’re right, then,” he said. “It’s hot.” 

“I want to say I’m surprised, but I’m honestly not,” Martin said. 

Jon sighed and shook his head. “Oh, shut up,” he muttered, inching closer to press his mischievous grin to Martin’s. 

*

“That’s the beauty of having your wedding at your own house,” Martin said. “Your friends clean up around you and then all you have to do is walk right upstairs and get in your own bed at the end of the night.” 

Jon hummed a laugh in agreement, nuzzling Martin’s shoulder with his head. The effects of the wine had mostly worn off, but Jon’s proclivity to cuddle hadn’t. Martin expected it might not for a bit in the wake of today, both of them still buzzing with the warm high from celebrating the love they shared. 

Everyone had gone home and left the newlyweds to each other’s company, the two of them now watching the flames in their small fire pit die slowly and leaning on each other in the flickering light. It had been a group effort to clean up and put away any leftovers that needed to be stored, though there was quite a bit of Martin following Georgie around, begging her to not do more than was necessary after all she’d already done to make their day so lovely. They saw their friends off and then returned to the garden for just a bit longer to watch the remains of the fire smolder to ash. 

Jon sat tucked under Martin’s arm with his legs thrown across his lap, a blanket strewn over them both to offset the autumn chill. He squeezed Jon’s knobby knees and turned to press a kiss to the top of his head, not quite ready to bring an end to this day. But it was getting cold and they were both wildly exhausted. They could only avoid going inside for so long. 

Just before Martin suggested they call it a night, an idea came to him. 

“I’m going to carry you across the threshold,” he declared. 

Jon scoffed. “You will not.” 

“I will,” he said, his confidence doubled down as he wedged his arm under Jon’s knees. “What do you think you can do to stop me?”

“I can say, ‘Martin, please do not carry me over the threshold.’” 

Martin rolled his eyes and fell back into the cushion. He moved his arm back out on top of Jon’s legs. “Well, I won’t if you really don’t want me to.” 

“Thank you,” Jon said primly, swinging his feet off to the ground and dragging the blanket away with them. “Though I believe it is probably time we went inside.” 

They put out the residual embers with some water and took care to unplug the fairy lights Georgie hung around the yard earlier that day. Martin then laid his hand on the small of his husband’s back and began to walk them towards the door. 

Just as Martin reached for the knob, Jon grabbed his arm from behind. 

“You’re not, er… going to carry me?”

Martin glanced back at him with wild eyes. “Jon, you _just_ asked me not to.” 

His face flushed with an embarrassed grin. “I… I realized I was just being contrary for no reason. I sort of--” He paused and bobbed his head back and forth, letting out a resigned sigh. “I actually would like very much for my husband to carry me over the threshold.” 

Martin swung around fully to face him, shaking his head disparagingly. “You are so ridiculous.” 

“I sort of thought you’d ask again when we got to the door,” Jon muttered with a coy glance at the ground.

“Nope,” Martin said. “I’m the paragon of respect and I always take no as no.” 

Jon then threw his arms out, shaking off any remaining pretense. “Pick me up, you bastard.” 

With a little too much confidence, Martin bent to hook one arm around Jon’s back and the other under his knees, quickly sweeping him up in his arms. He wobbled a bit once he straightened up, and Jon’s hand shot out to grip the wall of the house, his other arm squeezing around Martin’s neck in terror. 

“Good lord, this was a bad idea,” he muttered, though he couldn’t stow away his giddy smile for even a second. 

“I’ve got you, don’t worry,” Martin protested, finding stability on his feet and beginning to step towards the door. “Actually, can you get that? My hands are full.”

Jon laughed and reached one hand down to twist the doorknob so that Martin could nudge the rest open with his shoulder. He swung Jon around to take him through the door with a little less spatial awareness than he usually possessed. Maybe he hadn’t sobered up entirely just yet. 

“Watch my head!” Jon shouted, ducking in towards Martin’s chest.

“You watch your head, I’m busy,” Martin said, leaving Jon clutching his collar and laughing into his shirt. 

They made it over the threshold without any casualties, pausing there in the living room while Martin kicked the door closed. 

“Does that usually go smoother?” Jon asked. 

“I wonder how many people even actually bother with that,” Martin said. “It’s pretty impractical.” 

He made a slight move to set Jon down but before he did, Jon tugged at his neck until he bent to kiss him sweet and slow. Eventually, Jon’s feet came to rest back on the ground and he turned to throw his arms immediately back around Martin’s neck, imploring his new husband to kiss him again. 

*

If they’d known Ellen would nod off in the first ten minutes, they might have chosen a different film. But here they were, stuck watching a recent animated family-pleaser with their daughter splayed out on the loveseat like she’d been asleep there for hours. 

“We should just take her up,” Martin muttered.

“I’ve got her,” Jon said, heaving himself off the sofa to approach the loveseat with caution. He slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back, slowly lifting her up until she was settled against his chest. She barely stirred and Jon gave Martin a triumphant glance and gingerly made for the stairs. 

By the time Jon came back down, Martin had turned the movie off and was scrolling through other options.

“Oh, thank god,” Jon muttered when he sat back down beside him.

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” Martin said. 

“No, I suppose it wasn’t _bad._ ”

Martin chuckled at his husband’s persistent distaste for children’s media, to which he typically applied the same critical lens he would anything, something that amused Martin endlessly. They settled on something else to watch and Jon stretched out along half the sofa, resting his head on a pillow against the arm of the sofa and his feet in Martin’s lap. 

Martin learned years ago that if Jon kept quiet through a film, it meant he was actually really enjoying it. Otherwise, he was usually a font of minor observations and criticisms, eager to argue. Jon had barely said a word in half an hour, which surprised him. The film was good, but he wouldn’t have thought it met Jon’s criteria for silence. 

Martin patted his foot lightly. “You’ve been quiet,” he said. There was no response. 

“Jon?”

He looked over to find Jon’s head lolled back against the pillow, mouth hanging comically open. Martin shook his head fondly and turned the television off altogether. So much for movie night. 

He caught himself before he reached to shake him awake, spotting an opportunity. He gently slid Jon’s feet off his lap so he could stand and lean over him, wedging his arms under his limp body. 

It took a bit more effort than it did for Jon to scoop Ellen up, but in one fluid motion, Martin rose to his feet with Jon cradled in his arms. His eyelids fluttered but ultimately remained closed. 

“What?” Jon murmured, head leaning against Martin’s shoulder.

“Nothing, go to sleep,” he said. 

Martin started towards the stairs, but once he reached them and had to climb, he took a moment to shift Jon’s weight in his arms. This time, he did stir. He blinked up at him. 

“What are you doing? Are you _carrying_ me upstairs?” 

“Yeah,” Martin said, taking the first step up. “That alright?”

Jon hummed and let his head flop back against him. “Too tired to argue.” 

“That’s a first.” 

Jon made a small whining noise, nose tucked into Martin’s collar. “Going to hurt your back,” he muttered.

Martin crested the top of the stairs and headed towards their bedroom. “What happened to being too tired to argue?” 

“If your back is hurt tomorrow, it’s not my fault.” 

“How sweet.” 

Martin laid him on their bed, across it sideways with his legs dangling to the floor so he didn’t get too comfortable. Jon gave an elongated hum, opening his eyes just barely. 

“That’s very attractive,” he muttered. 

Martin snorted a laugh and went about getting changed into pajamas. “Your eyes were closed the whole way up.” 

A devilish smile spread across Jon’s face, heavy lids still hanging over his eyes. “I like when you pick me up.” 

“I know you do.” 

“You’re strong.”

“I think it’s just that I’m bigger than you, my love.” 

“No,” Jon said, affronted. “It’s not just that. You’re strong, I feel it when you--” He weakly held his arms out to illustrate his point. “When you put your arms around me.” 

Martin made his way back to him, perching beside him on the bed and planting his hand in the middle of Jon’s chest. 

“You still need to get ready for bed, love,” he said. “Come on.” 

Jon gave another sleepy hum, tangling their hands together. “Carry me there?”

“Nice try. Get up.” 

Jon sighed and heaved himself to his feet, slowly swaying his way towards the bathroom. 

“I’d have had you get changed and brush your teeth before the movie like Ellen if I knew you weren’t going to be able to handle it after,” Martin added. 

He shot a glance back at him accompanied by an unintelligible grumble just before he disappeared into the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know people that can go from perfectly sentient to absolute moron after just falling asleep on the couch? I do and I think that’s Jon 
> 
> anyway come find me on my [shitty little twitter](https://twitter.com/pantsoflobster) that I never remember to use


	37. i'll cover you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has learned a great deal about taking care of others and it shows.

Jon could tell the moment Martin got home from work that this might be a bad one. He came into the kitchen and said a quiet hello, letting Jon kiss him on the cheek before muttering that he hadn’t had the best of days.

“Is there anything I can do?” he offered.

Martin shrugged away from him a bit, letting his glazed over expression fall to the ground. “I don’t know. I’m just going to turn in early tonight.” 

“Well, dinner’s almost ready,” Jon said, grateful he’d coincidentally taken on cooking duties tonight. “Why don’t you just have a seat and relax?” 

His eyes stayed down for a moment before he began to shake his head, his hands balled into fists by his sides. “No. No, I should help you. I’ll get dishes out.” 

He quickly set about opening the cabinet and pulling down three plates. 

“Bowls, darling,” Jon said, careful to speak gently. “It’s soup. Potato and leek.” 

Martin turned to see him with the steaming pot behind him. “Christ. Of course. That was stupid, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s quite alright,” Jon said, keeping a watchful eye on him as he briskly put away the plates he’d grabbed and snatched down three bowls instead, setting them on the counter a bit recklessly. 

“Martin, really,” he said, approaching him and tugging his arm away from the cabinet door. “Why don’t you just sit? Talk to me while I finish up? Or don’t, that’s up to you. But I’ve got it under control, you don’t have to worry.”

“Fine. Whatever,” he all but spat, and dropped himself into one of the stools at the counter. 

Jon waited a moment to see if he might launch into an explanation of what sent him down such a dismal road today, but it seemed this one was a quiet storm for now. Rather than pestering him more, Jon simply served up dinner and called Ellen down from her room.

Jon knew it was for their daughter’s benefit only when Martin said he had a headache and regretfully trudged upstairs promptly after he’d eaten. Ellen, now twelve, was getting old enough to notice when a headache wasn’t necessarily just a headache. She looked at Jon with that knowing, worried look spreading across her face. 

‘It’s alright, darling,” he said. “Dad’s just having a bad night.” 

“Is he okay?” 

“Maybe not right now, but he will be,” Jon said. 

Ellen nodded; it wasn’t the first time she’d heard such a thing. “Did something bad happen?” she asked, wanting answers she knew she wouldn’t quite get, even if they did exist. 

Jon gave a pitying sigh. “I don’t know. He hasn’t said, but I’ll make sure he’s alright once I go upstairs. Would you mind helping me with the dishes?” he asked, lifting Martin’s picked at plate as well as his own. 

She nodded vehemently and followed him into the kitchen. 

Once Ellen was in for the night, Jon quietly pushed open the door to their bedroom to find Martin lying in bed on top of the covers, facing the opposite wall. He was still in his clothes from the day with the lights on and all, like he hadn’t moved in the hour or so since he came up. 

There was a small chance Martin had fallen asleep, but it was far more likely he was locked in a staring match with their mediocre paint job. He didn’t stir when Jon entered, and the fact that he laid so deliberately stone still solidified his theory even more. 

“Do you have water over there?” Jon tried.

There was a moment of hesitation before Martin spoke. “It’s not a headache.”

“I know,” he admitted. He approached the bed with a steady pace, sliding onto the edge of his own side and spreading his hand across the duvet. 

“Is it alright if I touch you?” 

Martin barely nodded, but Jon trusted his answer. He reached over and ran his hand ever so lightly up and down the curve of his arm and shoulder. 

“Darling, do you think you should call out tomorrow?”

Martin gave a bitter sigh. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Are you sure?” he said tentatively. “I’m just--if I’m being honest, I’m trying to think of what you’d tell me if our positions were reversed.” 

“Yeah, but if it was you, then--” He cut himself off and turned over, looking utterly exhausted and irritated. 

Jon gave him a knowing look, tamping down a bit of a smirk. “If it were me, then it would be justified?” 

Martin didn’t answer, just avoided his gaze.

“Is that what you were going to say?”

“Jon,” he groaned. “I just--”

“When’s the last time you took a day off?”

Martin grit his teeth together and huffed out a seething sigh between them. “I don’t--I don’t like you turning all that back on me. It’s not fair.” 

Jon balked at that for a moment, but then the meaning dawned on him and he actually had to keep his bemusement at bay, stifling another small smile. 

“Martin, when you say ‘all that’, are you talking about love and support?” 

“I--no. It’s the, the--'' He gave a frustrated groan. “Jon, just--just stop. I’m being so stupid and the last thing I need is for you to come in here and coddle me when quite frankly, what I need is to suck it up and come home and take care of my family like an adult.” 

Jon’s hand stilled on his shoulder and he squeezed lightly.

“Martin,” he said, a gentle whisper. 

“You can’t just give me a pass for nothing.” 

“Martin, everything’s taken care of,” Jon said. “Dinner is cleaned up and put away and Ellen is in her room, all settled.” 

“Yeah,” he spat back. “And you had to do all of that by yourself because I have one bad day at work and that means I’m suddenly useless, apparently.” 

“And how many days has everything fallen on your plate alone when I’m too tied up with work to help with dinner or Ellen’s homework?”

“Jon, that’s because--”

“We can talk double standards all night, Martin. It won’t make them right.” 

If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought Martin was furious with him. He scowled with such contempt, but Jon had long since learned that in a spell like this, all his anger was directed inward, no matter how the frustration manifested in words directed at Jon. 

“Do you want to tell me about your day?” he tried. 

Martin turned over fully on his back and stared at him for a moment, then rubbing harshly at his face with both hands as if he could scrub off the dirt clouding his vision. He started with a roll of his eyes. 

“It was--honestly, it was nothing, which is why I feel so… It was just a bunch of little things and by lunch time I felt like I was looking at everything through a foot of water, and then… That hasn’t gone away. It makes no sense.” 

“It doesn’t have to.”

“I know that,” Martin snapped. He then quickly recoiled in shame. “I’m sorry, I just… I just really can’t handle this right now. Anything nice you say to me is making me feel really guilty.” 

Jon nodded. He figured as much, but couldn’t keep himself from trying. “Alright,” he whispered. “I understand.” 

Martin fell into another spiteful silence and Jon resumed easing his hand up and down his arm. 

“I can’t argue with you on this,” Jon said. “Because I know you know deep down that… That what you’re feeling isn’t right, and you’re pushing me away to try to punish yourself.” 

“I know,” Martin muttered. “I’m sorry.” 

“But,” he added. “Because I recognize that, I’m not going anywhere unless you really want me to.”

Martin’s face was washed over with an expression not unlike a petulant child who had been told they can’t have what they want. 

“Do you?” Jon asked.

“No,” he mumbled. “I mean, I feel like I should. I feel like I should be alone. But I really don’t want to be, and I just--”

“Then stop right there,” Jon said, climbing fully onto the bed. “That’s all I need to know.” 

Jon lifted his arm and Martin hesitated just a moment before inching closer into his embrace. He even let himself tuck his head under Jon’s chin, which he gladly welcomed. 

For a short, silent while, Jon did nothing but pet the curve of his back, letting Martin breathe and release some of the tension he’d been holding tight in every one of his bones. Once he thought he’d had enough of a chance to bleed out some of his self-directed ire, Jon attempted to walk them closer to a tenuous, unanswered question. 

“Can we perhaps readdress the topic of possibly staying home tomorrow?”

A muffled groan warbled out from the direction of Jon’s chest. 

“I’ll write the email for you if you want,” Jon offered, knowing how easily little tasks like that could fester into the biggest obstacles. 

Martin pulled his head back and stared at him, his bottom lip sticking out just a bit. “Really?”

“Of course,” he said, pushing up into a seated position and holding out an open palm. “Give me your phone.” 

He flopped his head down onto the pillow, eyes clamped shut for a moment while he fought with himself behind them. “Oh, Jon,” he said softly after a moment. 

“Look, if you have anything to blame yourself for, it would be teaching me how to take care of a struggling partner so well. I learned this purely by example.” 

“That’s not fair,” Martin mumbled. 

“It’s _only_ fair.”

“Stop, it’s--it’s too much, I can’t--”

“Alright,” Jon said softly. “I’m sorry. Let’s just write this email.”

Martin handed his phone over and Jon ushered him to nuzzle into his side as he composed the message one-handed, curling his other arm around Martin’s back. He typed up a simple message as Martin to his supervisor, letting him read it first to make sure the tone wasn’t off. When he gave him the go ahead, Jon sent it away and set the phone to the side. 

“Thank you, Jon,” he mumbled against his hip, and Jon arched his body over Martin’s head to press his lips into his hair. 

“It’s nothing, my darling,” he muttered. “Why don’t you get in something comfortable now?”

By the time Martin got ready for bed, he’d gone resigned and quiet. While still not quite right, at least it seemed he’d tired himself of arguing his own indictment for the night. Jon tried to ease off with his soothing, though his instinct was to barrage him with as much love and validation as he could until it helped. It didn’t work like that and never would. 

They settled in to sleep and Jon wrapped himself soundly around Martin’s back. He allowed himself to whisper a few mild words of love, nothing too earnest that risked setting off any more alarm bells. 

As he laid in the dark listening to his husband breathing, at least at peace in sleep, he couldn’t stop his mind spinning round the fact that if Martin was staying home tomorrow, he’d be there all alone. Ellen would go to school and Jon would go to work, and Martin would have nothing but his own thoughts, which weren’t doing him many favors at the moment. There wasn't much Jon could do about it, unless… 

He swiftly made a decision and grabbed his own phone, drafting an email calling himself out of work tomorrow on a personal day. 

In the morning, he crept out of bed at his usual hour and let Martin sleep while he helped Ellen get ready for school. He explained the situation and assured her all would be fine, he was just taking the day to make sure Dad got the break he deserved to help his mind start feeling right again. 

As soon as she was out the door to the bus stop, he climbed the stairs once more and back into bed to read emails until Martin woke up. It wasn’t long before he stirred, beginning the day with a long breath let out as a belabored sigh. 

“Hey there,” Jon said gently. “How are you feeling?” 

Martin turned over and blinked at him, bleary-eyed, no doubt noticing the amount of light filtering into the room was all wrong for Jon to be in bed with him on a weekday.

“What are you still doing here?” 

“I’m not going to work today,” he said plainly. 

At this, Martin jolted closer, opening his eyes fully. “Why not? What’s wrong?”

Jon smiled down at him, reaching over to run his hand back through his mussed hair. “Nothing, darling. I just was worried about you. I didn’t want you to be alone all day.”

Martin furrowed his brow as he took in his words. “Jon, you don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine--”

“I know you’d be fine,” Jon said. “I just wanted to be with you.” 

Martin’s eyes filled with tears, his face scrunching in on itself even more. It would have been adorable if it didn’t break Jon’s heart. “I don’t want you to have to miss work because of me--”

Jon shook his head, petting Martin’s hair continuously. “I don’t have to. I decided to because I wanted the option to take care of you.” 

“What time--is Ellen--?”

“Already on the bus,” Jon said. “She only made a bit of a fuss when I told her we’re both staying home. It was a token protest, really. She quickly realized she’d much rather be at school with her friends than just hanging around with us all day.” 

Martin stared at him, a troubled blend of panic and regret playing over his face, but Jon hushed him before he could even say anything more. 

“Martin, I know what’s going on in that head right now and I just want you to know that whatever you think you’ve done wrong, I don’t see it that way at all.” 

“Jon, you’re missing work just because I can’t--all because I just--” 

“Nothing you did or said _made_ me stay home. I chose that on my own.” 

Martin regarded him with a sad glare, the way he did when he desperately wanted to blame himself even if it defied logic. 

Jon was struck by a pang of fear that this wasn’t the way Martin needed to be starting his morning, full of guilt and uncertainty. 

“Well,” Jon said. “I also realize that I made this decision for the both of us, and if you feel my presence might hinder more than help, that’s fine too. If you want space, I can go upstairs and work and you can just let me know if you need me.”

“No,” Martin said quickly. “I mean, I don’t--I don’t know. I just want--I really don’t know what I want.”

At least it wasn’t an outright denial. That they could work with. 

“Alright,” Jon said, slipping down lower under the covers to bring their faces level. “Simple questions, then. I’m just asking about you, not what you think you’re supposed to want for my sake or anyone else’s, yes?” 

Martin nodded, though looking skeptical. 

“Do you want me to be here with you?”

His mouth formed into a sweet, sad pout and Jon could practically see him struggling to give the truthful answer, not the one that sufficiently withheld his own comfort. “Yeah,” he muttered, finally. 

“Then I’ll be right here. Do you want to keep resting or would you like me to make you some breakfast?”

“I--I don’t know, I just… I’m not sure I’m hungry.” 

“Well, how about some tea to start? I’ll bring it to you.” 

Martin’s hand came to close around Jon’s wrist. “I… I don’t want you to leave.” 

“Well, that’s easy. I can do that.” He gave him a small smile and wriggled just a bit closer. Martin let his hand fall away from Jon and his eyes fluttered closed as Jon lightly ran his fingers across his cheeks and his worried brow. He attempted to smooth out the lines held there by all his many concerns, then trailing his hand back to massage at his scalp. 

Martin spoke again, two words that would have been barely audible if not for their proximity. 

“Tell me?”

Jon’s face melted into a relieved smile. It was one of those phrases that had become a shorthand of theirs over the years, a way to ask for something without saying all the words. He brought his forehead in to just rest against Martin’s, though Martin kept his eyes squeezed shut for the moment.

“I love you, Martin,” he whispered, brushing his lips against his nose. “I love you so much, more than I could ever make clear. I’m so lucky, so very lucky to have you and to be loved so well by you--”

He paused when Martin made a small, disgruntled noise. He’d gotten too complimentary. 

“Too much for now?”

That was met with a slight nod, but then Martin’s eyes blinked open. When he found Jon’s easy smile, his own mouth twitched upward for the briefest of moments. 

“Then just know I love you, simply and fully.”

“I love you too, Jon,” Martin said. “I’m--”

“I know you do,” he said, before Martin could get his apology out. 

“I’m--I’m sorry, I know I just said, but could you--would you mind, er, I think I’d actually… Maybe tea?”

Jon gave him the warmest smile he could muster. “Of course,” he said, punctuated by a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

God, he loved that, the first sign that they might be at least on the path out of the woods. It usually came in the form of Martin finally allowing himself to _ask_ , to invite comfort in instead of shoving it away in self-denial. Sometimes their lives felt like an endless tide of strife and relief. Sometimes it felt like they took turns holding each other’s tethers on the shore, watching and waiting for the moment to tug them back in before the sea got too rough. Jon reckoned that was probably how it was for everyone, after all. But after all they’d been through and every way they learned and bent and grew entwined around each other, the patterns sometimes felt amplified. 

This, though, the moments where Martin let him back in and let him know what he could do to help… It brought with it a relief that spilled quietly out of his lungs on a happy sigh as he stood waiting for the kettle to boil. 

When Jon returned with the cup of tea, he pressed it into Martin’s grateful hands and promptly climbed back into bed, beckoning him to recline in his arms and press his back to Jon’s chest. 

“You know, this is actually sort of nice,” Martin mumbled. “A day off for just us, no kid until three…” 

Jun hummed a laugh, pressing his lips to Martin’s temple. “I’m glad you’re starting to see it that way.” 

“Thank you for dealing with me,” he said, running a finger around the ring of his mug. 

“You know it’s never like that.”

A small sigh. “No, I know, I--I just love you, Jon.”

“I love you, too, darling,” he murmured. “Am I allowed to say more?” 

Martin squirmed a bit against him. “Not yet, I’m just… not sure how much I can take at once.”

Jon chuckled a bit, laying his chin on his shoulder. “That’s alright. I won’t press my luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> martin: hey you can’t just give me unconditional love and support when i’m trying to beat myself up for nothing even though that’s exactly what I give to you all the time and also the foundation of an even balanced relationship that’s not fair >:( 
> 
> It’s astounding how little I allow myself to think “is this ooc” bc if i thought about it as much as I should, I’d probably find the answer is “all the time, bitch”
> 
> anyway I hope you all had a nice holiday if you were celebrating. I recently posted a [wintry little blind date au](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28234860) based on a dar williams song i love so check that out if you want disastrous first date shenanigans and cold snowy feelings
> 
> and as always don't forget my [shitty little twitter](https://twitter.com/pantsoflobster)


	38. I know who you are now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin visits his mother's grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: cemeteries, complicated grief and mourning, strained parental relationships

Martin hadn’t been to the cemetery since before the change. When they came back after, he thought about it once or twice, but there had been so much settling and grieving and healing of his own to do, so detached from any trauma he sustained before the world ended. Then they’d gotten busy with finding jobs, and finding a flat and then a house and getting married, and between all that, he rarely found himself sparing much of a thought for paying respects to a woman who once made him feel like all those things weren’t meant for him.

Then, someone at work called out unexpectedly when her father passed away, sending some of her tasks into Martin’s workload for the week. She’d sounded so tired on the phone when she called to tell him about some files he’d need from her desk, and it brought the dull ache of grief for a parent back to the edges of his mind. 

Despite everything, losing her had hurt. Losing any future chances to prove himself to her had hurt, anyway. Apocalypse notwithstanding, she died right in the middle of the most categorically miserable time in his life, adding just another serving of loss and complicated grief onto his already overflowing plate. He did his best not to dwell on that period. 

He came home that evening quiet and distracted, which Jon noticed, of course. He sidled up to him at the stove where Martin was shuffling onions around a hot pan and regarding them with a bleak stare. Jon leaned into him and wound his arms around his middle. 

“Everything alright, darling?” he said, murmured into his shoulder and resolving in a kiss. 

“Yeah, I just...” He trailed off a bit, then resting the wooden spoon on the edge of the pan and slouching into Jon’s arms. “Would you come with me if I wanted to go to my mother’s grave?”

Jon pulled back a bit, a curious concerned look in his eye. “Of course.” 

“It’s just that… I haven’t been in a long time and I’m starting to feel sort of bad.”

Jon gave an understanding nod. “I never really went to my grandmother’s grave, either,” he said. “Or my parents, for that matter. She wouldn’t take me.” 

“It’s not a particularly fun task, I suppose.”

“No. But we can go this weekend, if you’d like.”

Martin nodded. “Yeah, I… I think I should.” 

“Of course, I’ll come with you,” he whispered, pressing another sound kiss into his shoulder. 

Martin transferred his spoon to the other hand so he could wind his arm around Jon’s waist. “Thanks, love.” 

When Saturday came, Jon drove them into the cemetery under Martin’s loose navigation. They had to drive around it a few times until he got his bearings, remembering where exactly the spot was. They found it without too much trouble, though, so Jon pulled off to the side and turned off the car.

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Martin said. “For now, at least.” 

They stepped out of the car and Martin pointed the way, leading them into the patch of grass through the haphazard rows of headstones and markers covered with flowers in different states varying from dead to plastic. He came to a gentle stop in front of the stone bearing his mother’s name.

“Well, here she is,” Martin said, with feigned cheer. “Meet my mum.” 

“Certainly takes the pressure off meeting the parents,” Jon joked. Martin huffed a grateful little laugh and nudged him with his elbow. 

When a moment passed, it became clear neither of them really knew what else to say. This was Martin’s own business, after all. He felt the pressing need to keep the burden of filling the silence off of Jon. He settled for nodding toward the stone itself in deference. 

“That thing was bloody expensive, you know. It’s unbelievable how they get you with stuff like that. It’s not like it says anything special.”

“It’s truly depraved how people have created a business of profiting off others’ grief,” Jon agreed. “I remember from making my grandmother’s arrangements.”

Another silence fell, only the mild autumn breeze shuffling crisp leaves across dry grass and ragged stone around them. Jon shoved his hands into his pockets and spoke again.

“I wish I’d been there for you.” 

“I know you do,” Martin said softly. “Once again, not your fault you were in a coma.” 

Jon rolled his eyes. “I know. Still.” 

“You’re here for me now and I appreciate it.” 

They both stared at the thing, cold and still in the ground, antithetical to what she was in life by definition though somehow, poetically reminiscent of her typical disposition.

Martin shifted and turned to Jon. 

“Do you actually… mind giving me a moment on my own?” 

Jon reached up and squeezed his arm. 

“Of course not,” he said. “I’ll go for a walk. Let me know if you need me.”

Martin nodded and Jon leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek before he started off down the row of stones. When he was sure Jon was sufficiently far away, he heaved a deep sigh. 

“I guess I’m gonna do that thing people do where they talk at a grave like the person can hear. Even though you hated that,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “When I’d just ramble at you. Well, you can’t tell me to shut up now, so… I guess I had some things I wish I could tell you.”

He stared at the dead, yellow grass, not even able to bring himself to look at the stone as he spoke, as if staring at her name etched into it was the equivalent of staring into her eyes. 

“I got married, Mum,” he said through a trembling lip as his eyes began to sting. “And I’ve been thinking about you just because I wish you could see me happy. I don’t think you actually knew what that looked like. I don’t know if I did. But I do now. And I keep wondering if that could have changed anything. I mean if you’d have realized that we’d been doing something wrong all along, you and I. Or at least, if having him would have made it easier for me to face you sometimes.” 

The thought made him smile, his eyes still trained at the ground and now leaking a few pitiful, bitter tears. For who or what he wasn’t quite sure. 

“Honestly, I’m not sure you’d like him,” he said with a wet laugh. “I don’t know. But I do. You might have thought he’s a bit of a prick. I mean, he is, but not to me. He wouldn’t have been to you, either. He’d probably drive himself mad trying to figure out how to impress you, even though I’d have already assured him it wasn’t worth it… Maybe you’d have thought he was sort of impressive, though. He’s really smart, and--oh, he’s a teacher now. And he does all this amazing extra work with the school, too, he… Maybe you’d have thought that was admirable.”

He shrugged and shook his head. Where was he going with all of this? 

“I don’t know,” he said out loud. “I just felt like I should do this. You’d been on my mind since the wedding. It was a really small thing, just our couple of good friends and some of my mates from work. Jon doesn’t have any family either. It’s just us, really. Oh, and he took my name.” He spared a glance to the side and found a nearby tree to fixate on for a moment. “He’s Jonathan Blackwood. I wonder what you would have thought of that.” 

He scanned the expanse of the cemetery and spotted Jon meandering rather far away, passing a gravestone and then stopping in his tracks to double back, peering down at the thing with shrewd academic interest. Martin gave a soft chuckle and felt his heart swell as he dropped his gaze back to the ground.

“I’m really in love, Mum. And I… Honestly, I can just imagine what you’d have been like. You’d have been telling me how people don’t always turn out like you think they will, and how the honeymoon phase doesn’t last forever, but… God, we’ve been through all that and then some, the actual end of the world, and we came out of it together. If we could do  _ that _ , then I reckon all the marital squabbles and tedium coming our way will be a walk in the park comparatively. Plus, we’re both in therapy. Not something you ever believed in. Probably could have done you some good.”

Finally, he forced himself to lift his eyes to the stone, a last effort to make this mean something. It was just a rock. Standing here talking to his dead mum in a cemetery was probably just as futile as it would have been if she was still around. 

“Anyway. That’s all.” He nodded, thinking he should have given some better form of a sign off, but with the end of his monologue, he started to feel self conscious about the whole display. Not that anyone heard him. He glanced up to see Jon just a few rows away now, staring intently down at another headstone with his hands folded behind his back, regarding it with a soft, intrigued smile.

It was easy to walk away when no one shouted at your back for running. It was even easier when there was someone to walk towards. 

He stepped past his mother’s headstone and trudged through the grass, cutting between the rows of markers. Jon glanced up at the sound of him approaching and smiled, a tiny, warm gesture welcoming him back. 

“See anything cool?” Martin asked, easing to a stop before him. 

Jon’s eyes lit up for a brief moment. “I did find one of those ones shaped like a chopped down tree. They’re rather sad, but they do tell a story at a glance. Do you want to go see it?” 

He gave a half-hearted smile. “Sure.” 

Jon laced their hands together and led on. 

“Honestly, we should take walks in cemeteries more,” Jon said. “They’re peaceful. Parklike. That’s how some of them were intended, anyway, designed with lingering in mind. That’s why some have meandering paths and trees and benches and all.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Have you ever been to Kensal Green? The cemetery, that is.”

“I don’t think so.” 

“It’s one of the--there’s a group of cemeteries in London they call the Magnificent Seven, have you heard of that?”

Martin looked down at him and shook his head with a slight grin.

“Well, Kensal Green is the earliest of them. It was sort of based off of Père Lachaise in Paris, which is…” Jon shook his head in the way he did when he realized he was in danger of infodumping. “Anyway. Ah, here we are.”

They approached a plot marked by a modest statue of a tree stump, maybe four feet off the ground, proudly displaying the name of the deceased on a carved scroll. The work of a once-careful hand that had chiseled knots and ivy into this piece of stone was dulled and nicked by time and weather, tinged green by a slight growth of moss. 

“He was only twenty-two, the poor sod,” Martin observed. Jon met this with a nod.

“It was something people did in the late 19th, early 20th century, usually for someone who died particularly young. It signifies a life cut short.” 

Martin hummed his acknowledgement. “That’s pleasingly melancholy.”

“I thought you might think so.” 

He bumped Jon’s shoulder in admonishment of the cheeky retort. 

“Did you find all this out from a normal deep dive or an eldritch one?” Martin asked. 

“A normal one, thank you very much,” he huffed. They stood staring at it for a quiet moment, and then Jon nudged closer to his side and found Martin’s hand again. “Are you alright?” 

Martin took a deep breath and then nodded, giving Jon’s hand a small squeeze. 

“Yeah. It’s funny, I started talking to her and I didn’t realize until then that I think I sort of came to gloat.” 

Jon peered over at him, his curiosity apparent though Martin kept his eyes trained on the intricate bark etched into the stone tree. 

“She was never happy,” he explained, his voice soft and resigned. “And it wasn’t all her fault, but she certainly never  _ tried _ to be. She chose bitterness so long ago that she completely forgot there was any other option. Every time I showed any sign of pride or joy or contentment… If she sniffed it out, she’d squash it so she didn’t have to watch me having what she didn’t. She could have at any time decided she wanted me to be happy even if she couldn’t be. She never did, though, and I got to be happy anyway in the end.” 

He paused, his mind catching up to the words coming out and what he was even trying to get across. For a moment, he just let the wind whisper between them until he found the end of the thread he’d been pulling at.

“So it’s sort of sick, but the part of me that wishes she was still here really just wishes I could be this happy in her face. Show her what I found despite how much she made me believe I never would.”

Jon laid his head on his shoulder, keeping his gentle grip on his hand, and Martin immediately rested his own on top. 

“Well,” Jon said. “Did… talking help at all?” 

Martin shrugged. “A little. Helped me realize that if she were still around, I’m not even sure all the nice things I’ve found for myself would even mean anything to her.” 

“That’s something, I suppose,” he said, snaking his arm around Martin’s back. He laid his own across Jon’s shoulders so they could nestle even closer together. A car drove slowly down the nearby path, another set of mourners scouring the rows for the resting spot of their loved one, and Martin couldn’t help but snicker. 

“We probably look like we’re mourning this guy right now,” he murmured, pulling a small laugh from Jon as well. 

“Not just sharing a tender moment while staring at the grave marker of a century-dead stranger, of course.”

“We’d never. That’s weird.” 

“Well,” Jon said. “Shall we stop loitering at some strange man’s grave?” Martin nodded along.

Despite that, they stood for a moment more, and Martin wasn’t exactly sure which one of them was hesitating to budge until Jon spoke up again. 

“I know I wasn’t always there in the past when I could have been, but I’m very grateful to be part of your present happiness.” 

“Jon, you’re--”

“Don’t say I’m all of it,” he said with a knowing glare. “That can’t be accurate.” 

“Fine,” Martin conceded. “But you’re a whole lot of it.”

“Fine,” Jon parroted back in the same tone, allowing his pleased grin to peek through.

They made their way back to the car and just before Martin stepped toward it, Jon caught his hand and tugged him back and down so he could plant his lips on his cheek. Jon moved to kiss him properly before he let go, sweeping his thumb over the dried tear streaks on his cheek. He then pulled back and away to get in the driver’s side of the car. 

And if Martin couldn’t help tossing a glance back towards his mother’s grave, as if to say,  _ See? See how I got what you wouldn’t allow?  _ Well, he just hoped Jon didn’t notice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t intend to use this to flaunt the products of my cemetery fascination, but I found a way
> 
> happy new year, friends
> 
> talk to me at my [shitty little twitter](https://twitter.com/pantsoflobster)


	39. leaving the other with plenty to read

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon struggles with a spell of death anxiety, but not about his own end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: depiction of death anxiety, following anxious brain patterns & catastrophizing 
> 
> The title is from Historians by Lucy Dacus, from the album by the same name which I highly recommend

Martin was going to die one day. 

It was something Jon had been acutely aware of for a very, very long time. The beginning of their relationship, as it had been, didn’t exactly sow hope for the exact sort of long and happy life they seem to have stolen away with, and Jon’s brain was quite prone to taking good things and turning them into omens of lurking tragedy to come. 

He was sure Martin was going to die before him. He’d always been sure of that, mainly because he simply couldn’t imagine fate being so kind as to take him first. It’s not that he wanted Martin to be the one left behind to live out the rest of his days alone. It’s just that Martin was remarkably strong and resilient, had only grown more so over the years, and he’d have it in him to guide himself and Ellen through that sort of grief and change.

Jon, on the other hand, was certain he’d be rendered lost and useless. The least he could do was prepare to be irreparably shattered when the time came. Perhaps there was once a time, a version of himself who would have been able to eventually pull himself back together, but not after this long. After twenty years of living with Martin by his side, his partner in everything through and through, he could hardly remember what life was like without him. 

There was no explicit reason to worry. It’s not as if they were _very_ old, but they were certainly past the point of denying middle age. Martin was in good health, had discerning nutritional sense, pressured Jon to get out and take walks with him on many evenings, and unnaturally accomplished a recommended amount of sleep on far more nights than himself. But, as these vicious anxieties constantly reminded him, anything could happen.

Every so often Jon would have these spells, maybe for a month or two, where the darkness of their bedroom at night bred a sick, cyclical fixation on Martin’s eventual death. He couldn’t be sure what exactly set it off this time, perhaps nothing at all. But as always, the heart keeping his worries alive was the notion that terrible things happened to unsuspecting, undeserving people all the time. As equally as there was no express reason for Martin to die tomorrow, Jon couldn’t exactly find a reliable reason to be sure he wouldn’t. 

Sometimes, like tonight, Jon woke in the dark with an overwhelming urge to grab Martin’s wrist and check his pulse. Of course, he was just sleeping. Of course he was. And if that were the case, it would hardly be fair to wake him up like that when he was clearly sleeping peacefully, uninterrupted. Martin had a particularly nasty dream the night before, too close to morning to fall back asleep properly. He deserved a good night’s sleep tonight if he could get it. 

But he did look almost overly still, and what if in the morning Jon woke again to find Martin hadn’t shifted an inch, and he’d been lying there cold and dead next to him for hours all because he didn’t check? 

He inched closer until he could press his ear up against Martin’s back. He was warm, like he always was, and the even sound of his heartbeat and his soft breathing sent a wave of relief over him. He let out a sigh and nuzzled into the broad expanse of well-worn t-shirt covering Martin’s shoulders. 

He was only sleeping. Of course. Healthy people didn’t just slip away in their sleep without warning. Except for when they did. 

Jon closed his eyes again and willed himself back to sleep. When they woke in the morning, if Martin took notice of the elongated kiss pressed to his temple, he didn’t mention it. 

The next night, Jon woke with Martin’s arm strewn over his side. That’s how they’d fallen asleep, so perhaps it hadn’t been that long; Martin often rolled over after a few hours. He thought he could feel him breathing against him, gently, peacefully, but still he grazed Martin’s arm with his hand until he found his wrist, wrapping his fingers around it and pressing gently, searching for the telltale rhythm. It was there. Right. So Martin hadn’t mysteriously died in his sleep tonight, either. Not yet, anyway. He closed his eyes again but Jon couldn’t bring himself to let go just yet, eventually drifting off again while keeping a steady vigil on the blood pumping through his husband’s veins. 

Strangely, it started to plague him during the day, too, in quiet moments when he should have been marking papers or lesson planning. Instead, he’d find himself staring at the clock on the back wall of his classroom, watching minutes tick by while he played out vivid, detailed sequences in his mind. 

They’d begin with Martin’s sudden, unexpected death in a variety of manners: freak heart attacks, indiscriminate workplace violence, a drunk driver hit-and-run on the street… The scenarios then proceeded to cover Jon’s heartbroken reaction to the news, then having to break the news to Ellen as well, and his own failing to be the strong father she needed in a time like that. Perhaps he’d have to send her to live with someone else if he really never recovered, effectively losing both his husband and his daughter in one go. Georgie and Melanie would take her in. Georgie would be disappointed in him, of course, probably incurably so, but she’d never fault Ellen for it. He’d be left to suffer the rest of his miserable life at least knowing his daughter was being cared for by people who could give her what she deserved, not a broken shell that was once her father. She was almost old enough to live on her own, anyway. Hopefully she’d at least visit him from time to time, if she could forgive him for never quite coming back whole.

He jumped in his seat when the first student arrived early for his next class, sitting at her normal desk and opening a book while thankfully barely acknowledging him. 

He tried to explain it all in therapy that week, struggling to pull the words out at all. Something about speaking them out loud seemed inadvisable, and it wasn’t clear whether he simply felt foolish, or if he had an even more foolish fear that it could give them the power they needed to manifest. 

He and his therapist constantly returned to the issue of Jon bottling things up until they festered and grew, laying roots deeper until they loomed over him, taller and stronger. It often helped, telling her about them, often worked to actually take power away from the thoughts despite his concern for the opposite

“Well,” his therapist said. “Have you considered talking to Martin about it?” 

Of course, he had. He just didn’t want to. If he told Martin, he’d try to assure him there was nothing to worry about. And there wasn’t, not exactly. He couldn’t risk getting lulled into that false sense of security.

But that was always step two. First, he’d admit what was worrying him in therapy, and then he’d go home and talk it through with Martin. To his chagrin, it always helped. 

So that evening, he came into the bedroom to find his husband reading under the covers.

“Martin?”

“Hm?” 

Jon hovered by the foot of the bed, facing him with his fidgeting hands tangled together in front of him. 

“My therapist suggested I bring something up to you,” he began, quickly shoving the blame off himself in case it went poorly. “Though I’m not exactly keen to.”

Martin dropped his book to his lap and looked up at him, immediately concerned. “What is it, love?” 

“It’s--it’s nothing, really. It’s just something I’ve been struggling with, worrying about, I…” 

He trailed off and gave himself a moment to work up to it, propping one knee on the foot of the bed in the meantime. 

“Lately, I can’t stop thinking about you dying,” he stated. 

Martin’s shoulders slumped, a flood of pity washing over his face.

“Oh, my love,” he whispered. “You know, you've been worrying about this since the day we got married.”

Jon scoffed. “Much longer than that, I’d say.” 

“What brought this on now?” 

“I… I’m not sure anything did in particular. Just good old, irrational anxiety, I think.” 

Martin nodded but said nothing else, just continuing to look at him with those soft, attentive eyes until he elaborated. Jon tossed his head back with a sigh and tried to explain. 

“Every day when I come home, there’s a little part of me that’s waiting for a call telling me there’s been an accident and you’re--” He sucked in a breath, the words still feeling too dangerous to send into the air. “And I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night, terrified that if I go back to sleep it’ll be like letting my guard down, and in the morning, you’ll be gone. Just--just cold and dead next to me because I didn’t keep an eye on you after I woke up and checked your pulse.”

The concerned bow of Martin’s mouth twitched a bit. 

“You check my pulse?”

Jon froze, as he hadn’t meant to let that fact slip. He allowed one brief, self-deprecating smile. “It’s a good thing you’re a very heavy sleeper.”

Martin rolled his eyes fondly and opened his arms, welcoming him with a soft smirk and a nod. 

“Come here, you ridiculous man.” 

Jon had half a mind to resist but that half was quickly overpowered. He crawled up onto the bed and into his husband’s embrace, laying against his side and tucking his head towards his neck. 

“I don’t mean your worries are ridiculous,” Martin said. “God knows, I get like that too. But you have to admit, there _is_ something adorable about you checking my pulse in the middle of the night.” 

Jon bristled a bit. “Trust me, I feel ridiculous. But in the moment, I…” He lifted his head so he could see Martin’s face, letting his hand trail down his chest. “I just have to be sure.” 

“Oh, love,” he cooed, his amusement giving way to sincerity. “I wish you’d have told me about this if it’s been bothering you so much.” 

“I didn’t want to speak it, to be honest. Felt like tempting fate.” 

“And fate can hear you, can it?” Martin said, a bit of wit returning. 

“You never know.” 

Martin reached over to cup his jaw and pull his face close, pressing a sweet, comforting kiss to his lips. Jon sighed into it, but his mind promptly delivered a very helpful thought exercise, hissing, _Imagine kissing him for the last time and not knowing until it’s too late. One day, the memory of his lips will fade and you’ll never remember again what they felt like against your own._

Jon pulled back with a soft agonized sigh, looking away and staring at some point in the corner of the room. He shook his head, feeling the gentle pressure of Martin’s arm wrapped around his back. 

“I can’t fathom what I’ll do,” Jon muttered, simple and curt. 

A silent moment passed, and then Martin’s voice came soft and strained. 

“Oh, Jon.” 

He looked back and found Martin’s eyes full of tears. His own promptly threatened the same. 

“Please don’t--Christ, you’re going to make me cry,” Jon said, rubbing at the corner of his eye as if he could simply block tears from forming. 

“Sorry, you’re just breaking my heart with this, you prat.” Martin dabbed at his own and gave a watery little chuckle. “What makes you so sure I’m going to die first, huh?” he said, jabbing his side with his elbow. “I have a long history of exceptionally healthier habits than you. And _my_ body hasn’t already died once.” 

Jon tried to humor him with a small laugh, but it just came out sounding dismal. 

“I have always assumed… I know it sounds silly. But I just can’t help thinking that’s the way the universe will get me back. By forcing me to live without you at some point.” 

Martin shook his head, but that wasn’t enough to stop Jon’s thoughts from spilling out. 

“I know I’ll lose myself without you. And Ellen doesn’t deserve to lose both fathers at once, and--” 

“Whoa, whoa,” Martin said. “Jon, none of that’s happening.” 

Jon caught his gaze, finding it calm and soothing. No, of course it wasn’t. He was getting carried away, like he had so much the past few weeks. Martin was right here with him still. 

“I--I know. I’m sorry.” 

“Nothing to apologize for, I just don’t want you to get caught up in some made-up tragedy. And for the record, you wouldn’t just quit being Ellen’s dad without me. You’d press on for her, I know you would.” 

Maybe he had a point, though Jon wasn’t sure he could admit it out loud right then. 

“Day by day, love,” Martin added softly. 

Jon nodded, dropping his head onto his shoulder. Martin nestled his own in close, his warm, steady breath grazing over Jon’s ear. 

“Is there anything I could do to make this better for you?”

Jon gave a noncommittal hum. “Just keep breathing.” 

“Well,” Martin laughed. “I think that much I can do. But I mean, is there anything else? I could try to text you more during the day, just little reminders that I haven’t dropped dead at my desk or stepped in front of a bus or something.” 

“Christ,” Jon muttered at the imagery. “I… I would feel extremely silly requiring that.”

Martin shrugged. “If it would help, it’s not silly.” 

Jon rolled his eyes and then let them fall closed, trying to take it into consideration. “That might be nice. But I don’t want to be reliant on that and lose my head every time you get a bit busy.”

“Well, how about this,” Martin offered. “Rather than suffering in silence, if you ever find yourself in one of those spirals, just shoot me a message and I’ll respond as soon as I see it.” 

“Alright,” Jon sighed. “Thank you.” 

Martin wrapped his arms tighter around him until he had the leverage to turn him on his back, looming over and kissing his forehead, his temple, his jaw and again, his lips. He then pulled up but not too far, his face hovering right over Jon’s. 

“Has it ever occurred to you that our happy ending might be real?” 

Jon huffed a laugh. “It’s not as if I think our life is a lie.”

“I know, but I mean…” A gentle hand swept some hair out of Jon’s eyes. “Sometimes you still act like there’s someone plotting your eventual ruin. Like something else has control of the way your happiness ends. Which is understandable, but it’s got to be pretty painful.” 

Jon took a deep breath through his nose and gazed up into his husband’s eyes, winding his arms up and around his neck. “Maybe I never really got it through my head that life with you isn’t borrowed time.” 

Martin shook his head. “No one’s coming to take it back from us.” 

“Well,” Jon sighed. “No, but that’s the thing. I’m not actually worried about that, some unknown evil plotting against us. It’s everything else, the… the random things that kill innocent people every day, it’s chance, it’s…” He was distracted from his brief tirade by lips on his cheek again, so he trailed off with a sigh and leaned into it. 

“I love you,” he settled for instead. 

“You know,” Martin said. “I always think I couldn’t be more sure of that and then you go and tell me you’ve been waking up to check my pulse in the middle of the night.”

Jon grumbled, though a small smile did creep onto his face. “I don’t wake up _to_ check it…” 

“Sure you’re not setting alarms to make sure I’m still breathing every hour, on the hour?” 

“That would be funny if I didn’t actually consider it.” 

Martin was stricken with another look of utter tenderness. “Oh, love.”

“Sorry,” Jon said. “I’ll try to stop being so dismal now.” 

Martin fell back to his side, running his hand over Jon’s chest until it rested over his own heart. 

“You’re not getting rid of me any time soon.” 

He brought a hand up to cover Martin’s. “I’ll hold you to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to you by, I edit obituaries for work and every time i get one for someone in their fifties im like shit that’s my dad’s age, my dad could just die  
> and also bly manor
> 
> I almost wrote dialogue between Jon and his therapist but I am, in fact, not a therapist, and would probably end up just writing the character like my own therapist and frankly, I don’t think she and jon would be particularly productive together (and it would be jon’s fault) 
> 
> come talk to me at my [shitty little twitter](https://twitter.com/pantsoflobster)


	40. I'm not magical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin gets lost in himself when Jon is particularly busy for a few weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: depressive episode, harmful self deprecation 
> 
> My formula these days is apparently “one boy sad, other boy make it better” they’ve literally all been the same I swear my next one will be different   
> thank you dodie for putting a song out today that I could use to title this

In the last two weeks, Martin had barely seen Jon for more than one cohesive hour, save for the weekend. He’d been staying up incredibly late, working on plans and materials for this committee he was trying to start for the protection and support of students concerning their trauma from the change. All this work was leading up to a meeting with his school’s dreadful, privileged PTA, which was sure to be tense and hopefully not as futile as Jon worried it might be. On top of that, he’d been getting to school early to catch up on the marking and lesson planning he’d gotten behind on in the wake of all this. 

By the start of the week of the meeting, Martin realized he missed him. When the fog rolled in, it made the truth a bit more difficult to see. 

There was no actual fog like there once was, but the metaphor stuck. It grabbed his wrist and made him hesitate outside the door to the study, whispered that Jon didn’t really care whether Martin came in to say goodnight and would probably rather not be interrupted at all. It fell over Martin’s shoulders and weighed him down in his chair at work, keeping him solitary and still at moments when he’d usually take a brief walk around the office, searching for someone who might want to share a cup of tea. 

He wanted to go home and talk to Jon, to fall into his arms and do nothing but breathe while he pet his hair and whispered sweet things. But he was busy. He wouldn’t be there yet when Martin got home, and when he did finally arrive and scrounge up something for dinner, he’d have to rush right up to the office again like he had every night for days. 

There had been a time when they truly had nothing besides each other. They hadn’t just been one another’s only option for a partner, but for company at all. In Martin’s worst moments, he contemplated whether this relationship had formed out of obligation and survived purely on the comfort of the status quo. If he  _ really _ thought about it, he came up short of very many examples that proved that.

Still. He’d always been afraid that Jon, beautiful, genius, hardworking Jon, would lose interest in him one day. The spark of new love had once caught him, no doubt, but rather than catching on as a steady, healthy flame, it would fade into a pile of smoldering embers that threw off no heat. What would Jon need him for then? 

On the night of the meeting, Jon came home even later than usual, having grabbed dinner with colleagues afterwards. He came in the door buzzing with a sort of energy Martin didn’t exactly have the wherewithal to field. That appeared to not be a problem as Jon was thoroughly distracted by the desire to barrel straight back up to the study. Martin thought that would have eased off a bit with the meeting out of the way. 

He did stop by the kitchen to find Martin at the counter with his shoulders hunched over a mug of tea and gave him a brief peck. 

“How’d it all go?” Martin asked, mustering a show of interest. 

Jon barely spared him another glance as he rummaged through his bag, searching for some folders and his laptop. “Actually, not so bad,” he said. “I think we’re onto something with a few of them. There were just some ideas Marina came up with over dinner that I want to write up before I forget. I’ll just be a bit.”

Martin didn’t even try to plaster on a smile. Jon wasn’t looking anyway. “Oh. Alright, good luck.”

“Thank you,” he called over his shoulder as he strode back toward the stairs.

Martin glanced at the clock. It was too early to sulk up to bed and shut himself away under the covers. Jon would notice something’s wrong in a heartbeat, and he didn’t want to distract him. Or maybe he wouldn’t notice tonight, with his nose still buried so deep in his work that he barely remembered Martin was in the same house. If that were the case, Jon once again wouldn’t even come to bed until well after he fell asleep. That didn’t feel good either. 

So, Martin decided to plant himself on the sofa and watch some mindless television until it was late enough to reasonably go to bed. 

What if this was the way it turned out in the long run, being with Jon? It’s not as if Martin didn’t know what he was like. He was prone to this, to pouring himself into his work until everything else around him disappeared. Perhaps once, his deeper passions were fully focused on Martin, but that could easily begin to fade. It was only a matter of time before Jon lost interest in him entirely and they joined the ranks of loveless marriages like Martin’s own parents. At least he wouldn’t be made a fool of; he always suspected this might happen to him, ever since he was young. 

It wasn’t even a full hour later when he heard footsteps descend the stairs and creep into the living room.

Without a word, Jon approached him and slung one leg over Martin’s lap, plopping himself right down and wrapping his arms around his neck. He nestled his head between Martin’s head and shoulder, melting into him with an exhausted sigh. 

It was such a surprise that Martin couldn’t help but smile, his arms involuntarily coming up to encircle Jon’s arched back. 

“Finished for the night?” he asked innocently. 

“Finally,” Jon breathed, lifting his head so he could see Martin’s face. He felt an acute instinct to tuck his own head away. It was a lot harder to keep it all down when Jon’s fervent gaze was trained directly on him. “That was… a bear of a discussion tonight, but I think we actually came away gaining some ground. Some of them are starting to listen.”

“That’s great.” Martin conjured a small smile, wishing he could shove the rest of his silly pity party down to make way for genuine pride. To his dismay, Jon caught some note of this and frowned. 

“Are you alright?” 

Panic gripped Martin’s chest, quickly unfolding into a torrent of shame. What had he even gotten himself so worked up about? Nothing, nothing at all. Jon was right here, sitting in his lap after seeking him out himself, no less. What, he’d really thought Jon had gone off him entirely just because he had a busy week? How stupid, how shortsighted and pitiful these bouts of gloom made him.

“I’m just tired,” he offered. 

Jon didn’t look totally sold on that, but his hands came to softly bracket the back of his neck. “We should go to bed, then. I’m rather tired myself.”

Martin shook his head. “No, of course. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean--obviously, you’re tired. You’ve been working so hard.”

The concern on Jon’s face deepened. “Martin, are you sure everything’s alright?” 

He was caught. Of course he was. It’s not like he  _ really _ tried to hide how miserable he was from Jon, because that stupid, performative little voice in his mind  _ wanted _ to be caught, wanted Jon to notice and do something about it. 

He might as well lay his cards on the table at this point. 

“Jon, do you still...” He looked up into his rapt, unsettled eyes and knew at once how foolish he’d been. Of course Jon cared, what was he thinking? He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. “God, nevermind. Sorry. I’m being stupid.”

Jon’s fingertips brushed at the nape of his neck, his attention unwavering. “What is it, darling?”

“Nothing, I’m sorry I said anything. It’s nothing.” 

“Martin,” Jon whispered, slow and adoring. “Please don’t hide from me.” 

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “It’s nothing, I swear. Forget I mentioned it.”

“It  _ really _ doesn’t sound like nothing,” Jon said. 

Martin fixed his own dismal gaze at the wall over Jon’s shoulder, working up his resolve to keep from spouting his ridiculous doubts. 

“But,” Jon continued. “If you don’t feel like talking now, that’s alright.”

And yet, that fragile resolve crumbled like a house of cards. “No, fine, it’s just… I’ve been…” He let out a miserable sigh. “Will you just tell me you love me?”

Jon’s hands froze behind his neck, then sliding to frame Martin’s face. He looked at him with such searing intensity and confusion that made Martin feel even more a fool for carrying on about this.

“I love you,” he asserted like it was a bold, intellectual claim that anyone could just dare try and challenge him on. 

All at once, warmth began to consume Martin’s chest. He nodded, letting out a deep exhale. “Okay. I know.” 

Jon’s thumbs skated across his cheeks, eyes still searching deep in his own for more answers.

“Martin, what’s this about?” 

“It’s just… I’ve just been… Um. Lately, you’ve been so busy and I guess it’s just… It’s made me a little… You know.” 

He hated to say the word these days.

“You’ve been lonely,” Jon whispered, desperate recognition washing over his face. 

“It’s not your fault,” Martin said, dismissing himself with a shrug. “I can’t just pout every time you get busy.” 

At this, Jon sternly shook his head. “No, I think it rather is my fault. I didn’t even notice you’d been struggling.” 

“It’s not your job to keep track of every time I’m feeling a bit sad.”

“I beg to differ,” he said. “Or at least, I’ve always meant for it to be.” 

“Jon, you’ve got a lot going on,” Martin complained. “You’re doing important work and I don’t want to be another thing on the whole pile of stuff you have to worry about.”

He gave a slight shake of his head again, this time softened by a gentle smile. “Well, that’s unfortunate, because I will always worry about you, no matter what I’ve got on. You’re my husband. And I love you.” The last part came out sounding almost like a threat.

Martin flopped his head back onto the sofa and sighed. “I really didn’t mean to make a big deal out of this.” 

“Martin, please. If all you can do right now is undermine yourself, then just… Just listen to me.” 

He took a few seething breaths staring at the ceiling and then forced himself to look at Jon, who cocked his head with a thoughtful frown. He raised a hand to brush some hair behind Martin’s ear. 

“There are a lot of things I  _ never _ want to make you feel,” Jon said, even and measured. “And lonely is extremely high on that list. I know I can be oblivious and… And I can get myopic when I’m under stress, but that’s no excuse for making you feel like you aren’t my first priority.”

“I don’t--I don’t expect to be your  _ first priority _ all day, every day, Jon. That’s not--that’s not--” 

“But you are.”

“Alright,” Martin grumbled, defeated. “I get it.”

“Please just accept that I’m a complete idiot who forgets what it might look like to my husband when I become distant and hyper-focused on work.”

At last, Martin let the corner of his mouth curl upward. “I mean, I should have known that.” 

Jon laughed and leaned forward to leave a lingering kiss on Martin’s cheek. He tangled his fingers in the back of Martin’s hair, carding through the curls and lightly scratching at the base of his scalp, leaving him feeling so fully surrounded by the warmth of Jon’s affection. Soon, though, Jon’s fingers slowed to a halt. 

“What were you going to ask me at first? You said, do I still...” His puzzled expression gave way to one of realization. “Were you worried I--did you think I felt any differently about you?” 

“I know it’s stupid,” Martin said, shaking his head. “I know you were just busy, but I can’t help it. I’ve always been afraid you’ll get tired of me at some point.” 

Jon sucked in a sharp breath. “And I’ve always been afraid of making you feel that very thing.” 

“Jon, I really didn’t mean to make you feel bad over this. It’s not that--”

“Martin, look at me,” he said, taking his face between both hands again. “I will  _ never _ grow tired of you.”

“Okay, you don’t know that,” he mumbled, trying to look back toward the ground. That was made hard by the way Jon seemed determined to keep their eyes locked together with his gentle grip on Martin’s face.

“No, you’re right. I don’t know it. I chose it. I’ve decided to love you for the rest of my life and if I fail at every other thing I try to do, that will be the one thing I never give up on. I promise you that.”

“Jon…” 

He pulled Martin’s face close and pressed his lips to his forehead. “Do you believe me?” 

Martin rolled his eyes, allowing himself to lean into him. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Good,” he whispered against Martin’s skin. “Good.” Jon wrapped his arms tight around his neck, burying his nose behind his ear. 

As much as the doubtful part of him tried, he couldn’t find any trace of insincerity or exaggeration in the way Jon traced his jaw with a line of kisses, clinging to him like he was the most precious thing he’d ever held. Martin was loved, for god’s sake, and the fact that he’d ever convinced himself even an ounce of Jon’s love for him had faded made him blush in embarrassment. It was a good thing Jon was too busy nipping at every inch of his skin to notice. 

Martin dropped his head onto his shoulder, “Jon, I’m sorry.” 

“I am too,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to the side of his head. “Can we call it even?” 

He huffed a little laugh. “Yeah, I think I can manage that.”

“Alright.” Jon wove his fingers into his hair and tugged ever so lightly so that Martin raised his head. The second he did, he was consumed by a bruising kiss. “You know,” he said, pulling back just enough so Martin could see the mischievous curve of his brow. “I originally came down here planning to kiss you absolutely silly, hence why I sat myself in your lap like this.”

Martin couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “This was a sort of silly position for this conversation, I’m realizing.” 

Jon leaned in with a breathy snicker, propping his forehead against Martin’s. There were some things he just couldn’t deny when Jon brought out that smile, so content and deeply adoring. 

“You must know how much I think about you every day, how much I miss you when I leave before you wake and come to bed long after you’re asleep.” 

“Really?” Martin said, regretting only a bit how pathetic he sounded.

Jon nodded. “I should really find ways to make that more clear.” 

“Oh, Jon.” 

“All this week, I kept thinking, ‘The second that meeting is over, I’m going to come home and kiss him until he can’t breathe.’ And then I got so distracted on a high from lambasting the Tories that call themselves the PTA tonight that I almost forgot.” 

Martin laughed and Jon pressed his lips tenderly to the corner of his mouth. 

“Well, I would like to get on with that now if you’re interested.” 

“Very,” Martin said, and he barely got a chance to take a breath before Jon took over once more, surging forward and latching onto Martin’s mouth with his own. Sitting in his lap like this was one of the few situations that allowed Jon to wield any height over Martin, propped up on his knees and looming over his face with his most devilish grin. Jon kissed him ravenously until Martin’s bottom was in danger of sliding right off the sofa, at which point he grabbed hold of Jon and swung him down on top of him as he stretched across the cushions longways. He could feel the relief setting in, not just his own, but Jon letting the stress of his week diffuse as his shoulders loosened and draped across Martin’s chest. 

It could have just been this. Jon would have always come back to him, no matter what sort of panic Martin felt in the lead up. He resolved to do his best to remember that next time. 

Jon lifted his head to capture Martin’s gaze again. 

“I love you,” he whispered. “I will tell you that as many times as you need to hear it.”

“I love you too, Jon. I’m--” 

Before Martin could get another apology out, he was cut off by a very pointed and purposeful kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is what happens when i go “i want to write something with a scene where Jon comes and sits on martin’s lap out of the blue” but I also happen to be depressed   
> to my two sweet boys who I love so dearly, I give them each a gift wrapped up in the form of projection: my anxiety for Jon, and my depression for Martin. I hope they like them


	41. open up your folding chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin spend a weekend away just the two of them for the first time since becoming parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello I feel like i’ve been away a long time its been like two weeks!! 
> 
> I was feeling bad about how long this was taking and i was like whats wrong with me, and then it turned out to be 6k words and i was like oh. this one’s just long
> 
> this spun off a suggestion from peppernine from a comment way back in november so thank you so much!!!!!

“We have a little proposition for you,” Georgie said, sounding pleasantly devilish. She’d texted Martin that morning asking him to call her when he got a chance, so he took a walk at lunchtime to do just that. “It was Melanie’s idea and I’m telling you first because the only chance of Jon going along with it is if you’re already on board.” 

“Well, that sounds like trouble.” 

“No, it’s good, I swear!”

“Alright, lay it on me, then.” 

“Well,” she began. “Mel has a work thing in London in April and we were all going to come up for the whole week. We got to talking about how you two have never spent a night away from Ellen and thought… What if we did a bit of a house swap for a weekend, and we looked after the little ones in London while you two had a little getaway to Brighton?” 

Martin laughed in surprise. “Oh, wow. That’s quite an offer.” 

“But… sounds like fun?” 

“What’s in it for you?” he said, piling on the playful distrust.

“What makes you think there’s a catch?” she countered. 

“If it was Melanie’s idea, I have to assume it wasn’t purely out of the goodness of her heart.” 

Georgie laughed. “Alright, it’s mostly that we’d save on lodging costs for a few nights.”

“You know you’re always welcome to--”

“And we’d do so without crowding your house.” 

“Ah,” he said. It was true that since the kids, there wasn’t really a ton of room to have Georgie, Melanie, and Jade stay the night comfortably. “That does make sense.”

“It is _partly_ a gesture of good will, though,” she said. “We genuinely think it would be good for you to take a weekend off from parenting. Trust me, we know it’s worth it.” 

“Well,” Martin said. “Honestly, it does sound like it could be nice. I’m just not so sure what my other half is going to think.”

He could practically hear her roll her eyes. “Just talk to him about it. He’ll go along if you frame it right. Maybe begrudgingly, but he’ll be fine.” 

“I’m not even sure he’d be able to relax leaving her behind. He’ll be calling you once an hour.”

“Look,” Georgie said. “You’re going to have to try it sometime. The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be.”

“I know, you’re right…” He gave a heavy sigh. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. God, it would be _really_ nice…” 

“That’s the spirit,” she said through an audible grin. 

That evening, he unloaded the proposition on Jon, framed as innocently as possible. 

“What?” He sounded as scandalized as if he suggested they disown their daughter entirely. 

“It would just be two nights,” Martin said. “And she’d be with people we trust, _and_ she’d be here living it up with Jade.” 

Jon contemplated silently for a moment, drumming his fingers against his chin. “That’s… That is true.” 

“We haven’t gone anywhere overnight just the two of us in three years. And I’m not complaining, I don’t feel like that’s something we’re missing out on, but you can’t deny it would be nice.” 

“It… would.” Jon drew the words out like pulling his own teeth. 

“Come on,” he said, approaching him with a taunt in his smile. Jon kept his arms folded and one eyebrow cocked even as Martin wrapped his arms around him and swayed him gently back and forth. He ducked in close to his ear. “We’ll have nice dinners and drinks, and pop in and out of shops at our leisure, nobody suddenly wanting to go home in danger of a meltdown, nobody to wake up and make breakfast for but ourselves…” 

Jon hummed, unimpressed but growing intrigued. He continued his murmurings. 

“You can pack that pretty skirt, and wear your hair down and you’ll look so gorgeous in the sea breeze, I won’t be able to keep my eyes off you.” He pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Come on, love.” 

Jon gave a defeated sigh and extricated his arms from between them, slowly wrapping them around Martin’s middle. 

“Alright.”

Martin pulled his head back. “Really?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Don’t act like you didn’t think you could wear me down.” 

“I just thought it would be harder than that.”

“I’m not completely sold yet, but I can admit it… It could be nice.”

Martin tugged him toward the edge of the bed so they could sit. 

“What parts are bothering you?”

Jon threw his hands up as if it was all obvious. To a point, it was. “What if she’s miserable? We’ve never left her for that long and made it clear we’ve chosen to… to spend time explicitly without her. Don’t you worry she might feel abandoned?”

Martin laid a soothing hand on his knee. “Jon, it’s not unusual for parents to spend time away from their kids. It’s not a bad thing, either. I think it’s something we all have to at least be comfortable with at some point.”

“I guess,” he grumbled. 

“If she does seem upset about it, we’ll assure her we’re coming back very soon and that she’s going to be with people who care about her very much. She knows we’d never leave her.”

Jon gave a melodramatic, elongated sigh and then dropped his hand on top of Martin’s. “Alright, then. What weekend is it again?” 

By the time they went to bed, it wouldn’t have been entirely accurate to say Jon was fully on board, but despite his misgivings, they’d called Georgie to take her up on the offer. 

They both took a half day on the Friday they were to leave, giving them time to pack and make sure Ellen was settled. Martin had made sure they were ready to walk out the door by the time Georgie, Melanie, and Jade arrived after checking out of their previous accommodations for the week to avoid any painful dwelling. 

Martin hadn’t felt very unsettled about any of it until it came time to actually say goodbye to Ellen. Fortunately, this entire plan hinged on the fact that her biggest weakness, her best friend Jade, was bouncing all around, a thorough distraction to the gravity of her dads leaving for two nights. Martin was sure Jade’s presence was their saving grace here. 

He stooped down to hug her, engulfing her little form in his arms and lifting her off the ground. He covered her face and head in over-the-top kisses for far too long. 

“Daddy,” she complained.

“Just making sure you’ve got enough to last the weekend.”

He then passed her off to Jon, who squeezed her as if he was going to war. Martin felt a pang of secondhand hurt when she wriggled out of Jon’s grasp to follow Jade into the living room. 

“There she goes,” Georgie said, conspicuously nonchalant. 

“Best get out now,” Melanie said. “Before anyone thinks too hard about it.” 

They corralled them out of the kitchen and into the foyer to collect their waiting bags. 

“Strange being walked to the door by other people in your own house,” Martin remarked, but Jon wasn’t having it. 

“Please don’t hesitate to call us the second anything goes wrong,” he said.

“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” Georgie said, in the long-suffering tone she rarely used with anyone else. 

“She won’t even be thinking about you,” Melanie added. “She’s going to be entirely distracted by the fact that Jade’s here.”

Jon looked utterly stricken at the notion, so Georgie laid a hand on her wife’s arm. “I’m not sure that helps, hon.” 

Melanie laughed. “Oh, you’ll be fine. Just go have fun for once.”

“We have plenty of fun--”

“ _Go_ ,” Georgie insisted, pushing at Jon’s shoulder until he finally turned around with an exasperated huff. She led Melanie into the living room to join the little ones. 

For a moment, Jon stood staring back in their direction while Martin hovered by the door, trying not to look back himself. It would only make it that much harder for Jon if he let any trace of his own hesitance slip out now. 

“Come on, love,” he said, and Jon finally turned back to see him gently beckon him out the door. 

“Alright,” he sighed, turning around to follow Martin out.

When they got themselves loaded into the car, Martin in the driver’s seat, Jon sat painfully still for a silent moment. 

“Do you really think she won’t think about us while we’re gone?” 

Martin’s resolve withered and he gave Jon a pitying look, reaching over to take his hand. 

“Jon, if she can handle being away from us for a weekend without breaking down, it’s actually a good thing. Would you rather she have crippling separation anxiety?”

Jon looked away guiltily. “No, but I can’t say it wouldn’t make me feel needed...” 

“You’re very needed, you dolt,” Martin said, starting the car. “Now why don’t you just try to relax for once in your life.”

“I’m perfectly relaxed.”

“Of course you are.” He let Jon have his hand back with a small kiss on his knuckles before he pulled off onto the street. 

They arrived having just beat any rush hour traffic, the smooth drive getting them to the Barker-King residence just before five. Martin let them in using the key they’d swapped for his own. 

“This is weird,” he said, walking inside the empty house. “Sort of feels like we broke in.”

Jon laughed, standing awkwardly by the bottom of the stairs. “Yes, I’ve gotten rather used to being greeted by a feral child when we set foot through that door.” 

They kicked off their shoes and looked at each other expectantly. 

“Georgie said to take the master,” Martin said, with a nod toward the stairs. “Said she changed the sheets for us and everything.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll settle there then.” Jon graciously took Martin’s bag along with his own and headed up.

Martin set some of their other odds and ends on the kitchen counter and shortly followed up to the bedroom, where he found Jon standing in front of the vanity mirror tearing the elastic from his tangled hair and combing it out with his fingers. It was rather long at the moment, and Martin was eager to see it tossed about by the salty breeze, dancing around a tranquil expression he hoped would grace Jon’s face plenty this weekend. 

Jon caught his eye in the mirror and smirked, leaving Martin no option but to step close behind and tug his chin towards him, pulling him into a sweet kiss that he soon pressed into with a fierce insistence. It was his way of trying to declare their holiday begun, implying it was time for less worrying, more unwinding. 

He pulled back with a gentle nip and trailed his hand across Jon’s shoulders as he swept off with the intention to unpack some toiletries onto the bathroom counter. 

“Martin?”

“Yes?”

As instantly as he turned back, Jon threw his arms around his neck and pulled his knee up around Martin’s hip, the universal signal for, ‘ _Please sweep me off my feet. Quite literally, if you don’t mind.’_ This silent request was slightly muddled by the fact that Jon also promptly regained occupation of Martin’s mouth with his own. Once his mind caught up, he eagerly obliged, lifting Jon until he could wrap his legs around him. It would appear Jon did get the memo on holiday time after all. 

Martin walked backwards until he hit the bed, dropping onto the edge and settling Jon in his lap. Jon pushed forward to lay him flat on his back, leaning over him and letting his hair cascade around Martin’s own face. He laughed and gathered some of it out of the way, tossing it back over Jon’s shoulder. 

Jon dove in to trace the curve of his jaw with his lips, and Martin let out something between a giggle and a desperate sigh. He turned his head in an attempt to locate Jon’s lips with his own, finding them with ease. They melted into a disheveled tangle, kissing in the wanton, careless way they once found much more time for before they had a child. 

Then, Jon froze. From the front pocket of his trousers came a faint buzz, and he promptly ripped his face away from Martin’s to grab his phone and check it intently. He squinted at it, looking a bit silly propped up so rigid while straddling Martin’s thighs. He tossed the phone aside with a frown. 

“It was a work thing.”

Martin bit back a laugh and shook his head, running a hand up Jon’s hip. 

“She’s fine, love,” he said. “We’ve only been gone a few hours.”

Jon held his hands up in defense. “I just want to be reachable if there’s a problem.”

“And that’s fine,” Martin said carefully. “But, in lieu of an absolute catastrophe, the whole point of this is to let us take our minds off parenting for a weekend.” 

“I understand that, but--”

“Just _relax,_ ” he insisted again, tugging at Jon’s hips until he hung above him again. He then let his hands slither up and wind around his neck and into his hair, tucking his nose into Jon’s neck. “I swear to god, I’ll make you relax.”

His first press of lips to Jon’s skin was gentle, soothing even, until the soothing made way for unabashed attempts at distraction. He felt the vibrations of Jon’s defeated laughter in his throat and smiled, even more pleased with himself when that laughter gave way to a breathy little moan. Lithe arms returned to wind around Martin’s neck and soon enough, he once more got a face full of long, unbrushed hair as Jon turned his head to kiss him properly. 

Martin was the one to tear away next time, a modest spell later. 

“We should probably figure out dinner before we get completely carried away.”

“You’re probably right,” Jon said, budging up and not even trying to hide another disappointed glance at his phone screen, devoid of notifications. 

The next morning, Martin woke slowly into a bright, unfamiliar room, but any sense of confusion was instantly quelled when he turned over to find Jon staring at him, hands tucked under his chin and smiling softly.

“Hello, beautiful,” Martin said, instantly earning a scoff. 

“Starting the day off flirty, are we?” 

“We’re on holiday,” he said, digging a hand out from under the covers to grab at Jon’s. “I’m just getting in the spirit.” 

“Well, don’t fault me if I say the spirit is a bit cheesy.” 

“Oh, shut up.”

Martin shoved his arm under Jon’s shoulders and scooped him in toward his chest, where he happily settled in. He draped his arm across Martin’s chest with a deep, satisfied breath. 

“Did you sleep well?” Martin asked, laying a kiss on his brow.

“Only just woke up, really,” he murmured. “We got a picture from our babysitters of two very happy little girls having pancakes.” 

“Oh, let me see.” Martin stretched his free arm over to the side table for his phone. There, he did in fact find a photo Georgie sent to their group message showing Ellen and Jade seated side by side at their kitchen table, grinning behind plates of pancakes adorned with cut fruit. Ellen sported her typical demure smile while Jade bared her teeth with unbridled glee, a show of their personalities if there ever was one. 

“Look at that,” he cooed. “See? They’re having a ball.” 

“I know, I know,” Jon said, a shameful grumble. 

It felt decidedly strange to lay there on a day off, like they were neglecting doing something they really ought to be doing. Though that something was safe at home in Georgie and Melanie’s care, it was hard to feel completely off the hook. 

“Well?” Martin said with another kiss to Jon’s forehead, this one more energized, inspiring for a day of possibilities. Perhaps he was trying to convince himself as much as Jon. “Ready for our first full childless day in years?” 

Jon gave a displeased hum. “There’s no need to put it like _that_ …” 

“Alright, I’m just saying. We’re free as the wind today. We should take advantage of it.”

“Yes, yes,” Jon said, nestling into his chest. “Maybe just a bit longer.” 

Martin was happy to oblige, curving his free arm over the both of them to rest on Jon’s pointy hip bone, softly stroking at his bunched up t-shirt. Eventually, Jon drew in another long, contented breath and spread his hand across Martin’s chest in a gentle caress. 

“Shall we take a shower?”

He peeked over at him with a hopeful glint in his eye. “We?” 

“Well, yes,” Jon said. “It’s something we could hardly get away with at home.”

“They do have that really nice shower.”

“My thoughts exactly.” 

It was reason enough to extricate themselves from the blankets and start their day, heading towards the master bathroom tethered together by their hands until they had to strip. Martin luxuriated in the opportunity to wash Jon’s hair, raking his fingers through the knots until his peppered locks ran smooth. When they switched positions, Jon spent more time covering ground on Martin’s back with his lips than he did with soap. 

They soon dried off and dug through their suitcases for their clothes. Martin kept an eye on Jon as he dressed, knowing he had in fact packed the long, floral skirt that sat high on his waist and ran to his ankles. He knew how free and at ease Jon felt when he got the opportunity to dress in skirts and the bits of his wardrobe that edged on the feminine side, which he never did during the school week. There were much more important things Jon put his energy into fighting at that school, and wearing skirts to work without causing a fuss just didn’t make the cut. Once dressed, Jon padded over to the bedside table to check his phone.

“I missed a call from Georgie.”

Martin took a peek at his own. “Oh, me too.”

“She called both of us?” he said, his voice growing taut. 

“I doubt it’s urgent, love. She probably just tried us both. Don’t worry.” Before Jon could beat him to it, he called Georgie back and put her on speaker. 

“Hey!” she said, sounding perfectly calm, no crisis detected. 

“Is everything all right?” Jon spat immediately. 

She laughed. “Yes, Jon. Of course. Just wanted to see how you were getting on. And someone wanted to say good morning.” 

“Oh, put her on, please,” Martin said.

They heard a muttered, “It’s your daddies,” before Ellen’s sweet voice came through. 

“Good morning, Daddies!” 

“Hello, darling,” Jon said, breaking into a warm smile. “How are you today?”

“Good,” she answered. “We had pancakes.”

“We saw,” Martin said, grinning right into the phone. “They looked very yummy.”

They told her their plans for the day and promised to bring her back something nice, perhaps something terribly tacky with her very own name on it. 

“We miss you, love,” Martin said. “We’ll be back so soon.”

“Yes, we will. We love you so much,” Jon added with a nod.

“I love you, too,” she said, and then there was a muffled whisper from the side. “Miss you, too,” she added before handing the phone back to Georgie. 

When they hung up, a distant glaze fell over Jon’s eyes paired with a slight frown.

Martin clucked his tongue. “Don’t start feeling guilty, she’s doing great.”

“Yes, alright.”

“Let’s get out of the house, yeah?” 

They made their way on foot toward the heart of Brighton and into the Lanes in search of a bit of breakfast. They selected one of the several tea shops based on Martin’s enjoyment of it’s silly name alone and sat across from each other at a tiny patio table. 

The sea breeze did in fact have its way with Jon’s hair, so he took to wearing half up in a bun to keep it off his face. It gave him an inordinately playful look, appearing much more serene than he surely felt. Martin reached over and tried to help by ineffectively tucking some wayward strands behind his ear. 

“God, you’re the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen, you know that?” he said casually, drawing an expected grumble from Jon.

“That’s hyperbolic.” 

Martin cocked his head with a disparaging look. 

“We’re on a romantic getaway, Jon.”

“At our friends’ house in Brighton. It’s not as if we’re meandering the streets of Paris at dusk.” 

“I’m just saying, I think I’m allowed a bit of hyperbole for the occasion.”

Jon met him with a victorious smirk. “So you admit it’s hyperbole?”

Martin groaned. “Here’s some more for you, then. You’re the most irritating person I’ve ever met in my life.” 

This brought Jon a placid satisfaction, as if that had been the actual compliment. “But also the most stunning?”

“Those things are not mutually exclusive.” 

Jon laughed wickedly and brought Martin’s hand to his lips. 

It was only fair to note that his husband, Jonathan Blackwood, was far more laid back a man than his former boss, Jonathan Sims, though the standard was quite low. Perhaps he walked around all day with a mind occupied by nothing but their daughter at home, but even if that was the case, he’d reached a point in his life where it didn’t always have to take over. Martin could see that, so silently filled with pride. Maybe it was time, maybe it was therapy, probably a bit of both. All Martin knew was that the easy smiles he saw all day when he caught Jon’s eye were truthful, not hiding a thing. 

All too soon, they cozied up in a pub for dinner, tucked into a corner booth. They briefly debated the merits of sitting on the same side only to agree it would be utterly absurd and unnecessary on top of all the romantic indulgence they’d already allowed themselves. 

Once their dishes were cleared away, they continued drinking a bit more indiscriminately than they usually would with no plans in sight to vacate the booth any time soon. They talked about work, about the mildly disappointing news playing on a television behind the bar, and of course about Ellen, their ankles tangled together under the table and their fingers intermittently tangled together above it. 

It didn’t take long for conversation to drift to the recently ever-present primary school conundrum, which consisted of the debate on where to send Ellen next year, the convenient closer-but-affluent school or the farther-but-diverse one more in line with their values. 

“Listen to us,” Martin said. “We’re becoming those parents who go out to dinner and spend the whole time talking about their kid.” 

“Well, what are we going to talk about, ourselves?” Jon said with only half an edge of sarcasm. “That’s old hat. We know everything about each other.”

Martin gave him a look. “I bet that’s not completely true.”

“Go on, then,” Jon challenged, chin propped in his hand. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.” 

Martin squinted at him, a competitive grin spreading across his face as he tried to wrack his brain without getting distracted by his husband’s smug expression. 

“I can’t come up with anything that’s not depressing.”

“That’s to be expected. Lay it on me.”

Martin laughed, if only because he knew exactly what Jon meant; the great majority of both of their more cheerful stories took place after their entrance in each other’s lives. 

“I came to Brighton once as a child,” he tried.

“Was that the time your dad went out by himself and didn’t come back to the hotel until six in the morning?”

Martin rolled his eyes, simply at the fact that Jon was right. “Okay, what about… Do you know the name of the street I grew up on?”

“What a fascinating topic of conversation. I’m sure we could talk about that all night.” 

“Alright, smartass, but do you know it?”

Jon pointed a thoughtful finger at him. “Wasn’t it Poplar? Not sure if it was a lane or an avenue or whatever.” 

“What?” he cried. “When would I ever have told you that? Did you get that from the Eye?”

Jon scoffed, scandalized. “No! Don’t you remember when Tim made us say our porn star names? It was years ago, obviously, very early on. Everyone agreed yours was the funniest. Pickle Poplar. It always stuck with me.” 

Martin threw his head down onto his arm on the table with a laugh. “I can’t believe you remember that.” 

Jon hummed, covering half his smirk with his fingers. “I’m sure it was a symptom of an undiagnosed crush.”

“Well, I can’t remember yours for the life of me, so the symptoms must vary.” 

“I never had a pet growing up, so I had to count the next best thing which made mine Admiral Pembroke. Not particularly sexy, in my inexpert opinion.” 

Martin snorted a laugh. “I don’t know. Depends how you feel about authority.” 

“Don’t start,” Jon said, rolling his eyes. 

The clientele of this particular pub seemed to get younger and younger around them as the night went on, transitioning from the dinner crowd to the strictly-drinks crowd. He wasn’t sure exactly how long they’d been there, but they’d both had more than a few drinks and Martin was resting in a very pleasant stage of intoxication, feeling overly warm and filled to the brim with loving emotion for the man seated across the table. He figured he’d probably been smiling straight through an hour now, but Jon hadn’t poked fun at him for it yet. Maybe he was just pissed enough himself not to notice. 

Martin had one eye on a developing scene at the bar between two younger men who appeared to have exchanged some words and were no longer enjoying each other’s company. 

“I think there’s a fight brewing up there,” he muttered. 

Jon nodded. “The atmosphere of this place does seem to have changed.”

As soon as he mentioned it, Martin watched one guy shove another right off his stool, though he landed on his feet and promptly shoved back. 

“Yeah, I think we’re officially too old to be here. Good thing you closed the tab.” Martin edged his way out of the booth and put his back to the bar, forming a barrier between Jon and the altercation as he scooted to his feet.

“How chivalrous,” Jon muttered, tossed back with an amused grin as he let himself be safely corralled out of the pub and onto the street. 

They ended up walking down toward the shoreline, heading loosely in the direction of Georgie and Melanie’s house though still far from it. After a bit, Jon approached the guardrail overlooking the beach and leaned against it, sparing a brief inviting glance back at Martin. He took up his place right behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist so that Jon settled back, falling pliant against him. He could still peer out at the sea with ease over the top of Jon’s head.

It was decidedly peaceful, far from the pier and any of the night traffic, only a few passersby here and there. They stood in silence for a while, listening to the lap of the waves and breathing against each other.

A distant thought swam into the drunken current in Martin’s mind, attempting to surface and tie the seaside atmosphere to a far off, undesirable memory of another place, another world, one that nearly took this away from him before he ever had the chance to hold Jon like this to begin with. Perhaps another night, he’d run the risk of poking at it until he dwelled, letting it pull him underwater to a place and time he didn’t want to be. He’d just count himself fortunate to be in a pleasant enough state of mind to be able to shove it back and focus on the man in his arms instead. 

Martin raised his fingers to brush the billowing curtain of hair off the side of Jon’s neck, exposing skin he could press his lips to. Mildly aware that they were still in public despite how barren the street was, Martin took the opportunity to suck a faint bruise into the delicate spot. He heard Jon gasp and then laugh as he leaned into him. His arms tightened around Martin’s own and he let his chin fall to Jon’s shoulder, leaning into him with a surely lovesick smile he was glad Jon couldn’t see. 

“The seaside does always feel like home to me,” Jon said quietly. “Sounds like it. Smells like it.”

Martin nodded against the side of Jon’s head. “You know, I’d love to see where you grew up one day.” 

“It’s nothing very special, but I would love to show you. You and Ellen, of course.”

They fell into another silence, easy yet heavy with something meaningful. 

“This really has been nice,” Jon muttered, raising a hand back to cup Martin’s cheek. “Thank you for convincing me.” 

“We all deserve a break sometimes, even you.” 

“Yes, yes, sure.” 

Martin snickered and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, right over the small reddened spot he’d just created. “Well, thanks for going along with it. It’s good for us, you know? Not just taking a break, but… Trying new things. I know you hate to hear it, but Georgie’s right.” 

Jon groaned slightly. “About what?”

“If we never ripped the bandaid off on leaving El for the night, we’d have waited until she went to university or something like that.”

“I don’t think our attachment is quite _that_ unhealthy, thank you.”

“No. But it’s good that we’ve done it.” 

“I suppose it is.” 

Jon twisted around a bit in his arms so he could gaze up at him with an expression just odd enough that Martin couldn’t quite grasp what it was about. 

“What’s that look for?” 

Jon blinked up at him for a moment. “It can be a bit of a dream come true sometimes, can’t it?”

He could have played dumb and made him say more, but between Jon’s sheer sincerity and Martin’s own momentary lack of wit, he didn’t have it in him. “Yeah. It really can.” 

“It’s just...” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Our biggest standing concern is where to send our daughter to primary school.” 

Martin huffed a laugh. “It’s… It’s really something.” 

Jon stared at a nonexistent point over Martin’s shoulder, collecting a thought. 

“I know we marvel about that all the time, but… We’ve managed to create such a monotonous day to day, the kind where you can’t really see until you step out of it that it’s… it’s beautiful.”

Martin was definitely in danger of shedding a tear if Jon didn’t cut it out soon. “Oh, love.”

“I’m just so grateful. God, I’m grateful for you. And for her. For this, I just…” He trailed off with a shake of his head and reached up to wind his arms around Martin’s neck. Martin bent around him in turn, nestling his face into Jon’s shoulder. 

“Mm, you’ve fallen into my sentimentality trap,” he murmured. “I knew you’d go all soft if we walked down to the water at night with a few drinks in.” 

Jon huffed into his hair. “I believe I went willingly.”

He chuckled and lifted his head, tightening his grip around Jon’s waist. 

“I love you,” Martin said. 

Jon gave a small laugh, looking up at him with an incredulous smile. “I love you so much.” 

He nudged Martin’s head down to meet his own and pressed their lips together, and Martin could feel how Jon could barely unbend the corners of his mouth for a second. The wind whipped Jon’s loose hair around their faces and he felt him shiver against him. The late spring night didn’t keep them nearly as warm as it had during the day and the light cardigan Jon had relied on for the day wasn’t going to cut it for much longer. 

He cupped Jon’s cheek in one broad palm and tipped their foreheads together. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d call all this magical.” 

“Hm,” Jon said, thoughtful and decisive. “It’s for the best that it’s not.”

He kissed Martin once more and disentangled himself to lead them on back to the house. 

Jon eagerly unlocked the door to their home and they both abandoned their bags in the hall in favor of heading straight for the living room. Ellen was already barreling through the doorway towards them, tiny hands balled into fists and swinging intently as she ran. 

“Daddy, Daddy!” 

Jon stooped to catch her as she catapulted herself into his arms. She clung to his neck with a brilliant smile and Jon revealed his own to match when he swung her around in a circle. 

“Oh, my darling, we missed you,” he said, pressing several kisses to her head while Martin came to wrap his arms around them both. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Martin said, bombarding her with his own kisses. “Did you have fun?”

She nodded vehemently and then wriggled to be put down but before she could scamper off, Jon dropped to the ground and pulled her into his lap. “Oh, no you don’t. I missed you too much.” 

Martin looked up at the others, Georgie smiling at them from the sofa beside Melanie, who was wrestling with a squirming Jade in her arms as she tried to keep her from crashing the reunion. 

“Well, hello to you lot, too,” he said.

“Oh, so they can see us,” Melanie quipped. “Thought maybe we’d turned invisible. You know, it’s hard for me to tell sometimes.” 

Georgie shook her head and looked at them instead. “Did you manage to enjoy yourselves?”

“We did, very much,” Jon answered, then looking back at Ellen. “And what did you get up to?”

She climbed up his torso with a hold on his shoulders, standing between his outstretched legs. 

“Melanie taught me how to write my name in Braille,” she said excitedly, inches from Jon’s face.

“Oh, did she?” 

“You’re much better than your dad, El,” Melanie said. “He’s rubbish at it.” 

Ellen giggled and hid her face in Jon’s neck. 

“Well, can you show me how much better you did?” he asked, playfully bitter. 

She pointed toward the kitchen. “We put it on the fridge! It’s in there.” 

“Let’s go see it, then,” Jon said, standing and leading her away to examine her work. 

“Can I go? Can I go?” Jade begged, and Melanie relented her grip to let her bolt off after them into the kitchen.

“So,” Georgie said, once it was only Martin in earshot. “How’d it go?”

“Did he spend the whole time worrying we’d kill your daughter?” Melanie asked. 

“No,” Martin said. “Believe it or not, he actually managed to chill out.”

“For how long?” Melanie said, skeptical.

“Oh, you know. A collective six hours, I’d say.”

They all chuckled, but Martin then looked at them in earnest. 

“Honestly, we can’t thank you enough,” he said. “We’ll have to return the favor sometime.” 

“It worked out pretty great on our end,” Georgie said. “I’d say House Swap Weekends are an operation to keep on the books.” 

“Well, we’ve got the kids next time. If you trust us, that is.” 

Melanie groaned. “I swear to god, if I leave my kid with Jon for a weekend and she comes back telling me ancient history facts or something, it’ll never happen again.” 

“I’ll keep him in line,” Martin promised. “No ancient history lessons allowed.”

From the kitchen came the chattering of both little ones talking over each other, telling Jon the different letters they made in their rudimentary Braille, and the sound of him commending their efforts with the scholarly tone of a practiced teacher.

“Well, I’m going to go check out this new skill you taught my daughter,” Martin said. 

Melanie shrugged. “It’s just poking a pen through paper, but you’ll have her adapting novels in no time.”

He laughed and stepped toward the kitchen, popping his head back in just before 

“Will you stay for dinner?” he asked. “I mean, we’re not about to cook, but we could order in. We really do owe you.” 

Georgie and Melanie briefly conferred over traffic and late bedtimes, eventually agreeing to stay. 

“Alright then,” Georgie said.

“She’ll be buzzing before bed no matter what time we get her home, honestly.” Melanie added. 

“Right. Perfect,” he said with a warm smile, and went to join the rest of his little family in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> georgie, later: mel if i have to know this, you have to know this - jon had a hickey  
> melanie: good for him i guess but also gross
> 
> usually I project my own neuroses, this time I projected my parents’ attachment issues instead
> 
> I’ve seen only two genuine physical bar fights in my entire life and they were both in one single weekend in Brighton. so I can only assume a statistical probability  
> both fights were some of the funniest shit i’ve ever witnessed and if you want to hear about them hmu on my [shitty little twitter](https://twitter.com/pantsoflobster)  
> please let me reiterate how much i miss DISGUSTING bars 
> 
> i've got more stuff in the works but i've just been a little slow recently!! but i'll be around I promise


	42. keep me warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon comes around on snow if only for how happy it makes Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it finally snowed for me so i made this bit id already had sitting around into a snow thing somehow

It was both a curse and a miracle when snow fell and actually stuck in London, a curse for the obvious reasons: the school system lost its collective head and travel was inhibited whether or not they decided to clean off the car so that Jon could drive instead of trudging through the slush to get to work on foot. Not to mention the fact that Jon naturally ran cold, and keeping his brittle bones warm was an even more daunting task when every surface outside of their home was covered with inescapable ice. 

It was, though, miraculous only for what it did to Martin. It turned him a certain kind of giddy, had him prepping days ahead by stopping at the shop on his way home to make sure they had not only the essentials, but hot cocoa and ingredients for his favorite soups and sometimes, peppermint liquor for that hot cocoa. He’d come home with all of that and his excitement to boot, buzzing with the same sort of anticipation you could feel in the air itself before snow fell. 

As disgruntled as Jon wanted to be about snow, the joy of his boyfriend (fiancé, as of recent) made it very hard to stay bitter. 

The first time it snowed since they’d been together, Jon shamefully admitted how he’d always hated the snow, how the pavement got so slippery and dirty for days to come, how everyone in the city forgot how to walk and drive and talk about anything other than the godforsaken weather. Martin had laughed and said he knew that already, had watched many a time as Jon trudged into the archives looking frozen and soggy before slamming the door to his office behind him and not emerging until he’d thoroughly thawed and calmed down a bit. 

Jon rolled his eyes and blushed, always a bit embarrassed and guilt-ridden when faced with memories of his old self. But Martin assured him that his attitude toward snow was one of his less offensive behaviors back then and he actually looked back quite fondly on those moments when Jon carried himself a bit more like a disgruntled cat than an impossible-to-please boss. At least then, any ire directed toward him or the others could be easily attributed to external circumstances and nothing they’d personally done wrong.

Jon still often apologized for ever requiring that amount of mental gymnastics from them in the first place. Martin always silenced him with a kiss. 

The second time it happened, snow fell over the weekend so they’d both been home with nowhere to be except each other’s arms. It was enough precipitation that it also brought the promise of the schools closing for Monday at the least, and Martin would probably receive the offer to work from home for the beginning of the week rather than commute into Central London. 

Martin seemed hellbent on establishing a habit of making Jon bundle up with him and go on a walk when the flakes were gentle enough to be pleasant. Then they’d come home, divest themselves of their soggy outerwear, and curl up together in the living room. In preparation for the storm, Martin had ordered several jigsaw puzzles to pass the time inside, mumbling something about his mother doing that when he was very little. 

They spread the pieces over the coffee table, Martin on the sofa and Jon settled on the ground between his knees, working diligently and fighting over pieces until the thing was finished. Jon then crawled up into Martin’s lap and they stretched out under a blanket propped up against the arm of the sofa until they felt like making dinner. 

“You know, I do see the appeal,” Jon had said, leaning back against the warm expanse of Martin’s torso and staring out the window at the snowfall growing harsher and harsher. 

“What’s that?”

“I just mean I do get it. It’s not so bad to be stuck inside when you have someone you love to be stuck with.” 

Martin craned around to stare him down with a condescending brow raised. 

“Now, remember the days when you’d complain up and down about how much you hated snow?” 

“I didn’t have my own personal heater back then,” he pointed out, nestling closer.

“You could have asked,” Martin muttered. “I’d have hugged you or something. Helped you warm up.” 

Jon snickered, trailing his fingers up Martin’s forearm where it crossed his own belly. “Yes, well. I wasn’t quite there yet.” 

“No kidding,” Martin said, earning himself a lighthearted swat. 

It just so happened that somewhere along the line, Jon caught some of Martin’s rather contagious excitement for winter weather. It clearly had everything to do with anticipating Martin’s delight and not the meteorological event itself, but still, whenever a colleague in the teacher’s lounge checked their weather app and announced there was snow in the forecast, he found himself less filled with dread and irritation and instead imagining the days to come at home with Martin.

The first snow since they moved to their new house came unseasonably early, a week before the calendar had even turned to December.

Martin, of course, insisted they go out for a late afternoon walk once the snowfall had eased up and some responsible citizens had gotten the chance to dig out the pavement in their neighborhood. Jon would never in a million years deny Martin his snowy walks, but that didn’t mean every step he took on the treacherous ground didn’t feel like Russian roulette. A smoother man might have masked his need to keep both arms coiled around one of Martin’s as a desire to be close to him, but he couldn’t stifle every tense, undignified cry of, “Martin, Martin,” as his fiancé confidently strode over the icy pavement and dragged him along at a terrifying pace. 

“I’ve got you,” he’d laugh, doing very little to assuage Jon’s fear that one false step would have them both toppling to the unforgiving frozen ground. Martin could laugh, but he knew his fear wasn’t unfounded; Martin had already kept him upright when he nearly lost his balance at least three times since they set out.

It was, though, a sacrifice Jon was all too willing to make just for the look on Martin’s face on a snowy walk, the reddening of his nose and cheeks peeking out from under his bulky, handknit scarf, how the biting cold colored his face with as much radiance as direct sunlight did. The sight of it peppered with delicate snowflakes sticking to his eyelashes and sticking to his skin was so sweet it was almost sickening, and might have actually been so once upon a time. Jon could imagine a past version of himself beholding the sight of Martin in the snow, finding him adorable in some deeply repressed recess of his mind and, so unsettled by such a thought, pushing forward a methodical distaste for the cold, the weather, for Martin himself, much more comfortable to rest with bitterness than anything else.

But god, it had been a long time since he found himself able to be anything other than hopelessly in love with the man whose arm he clung to, and if he hadn’t needed to keep such an unwavering focus on each footfall at the moment, he’d be sweeping Martin off to the side to kiss his chapped, frigid lips once every block. 

As much as Martin loved walking in the snow, Jon knew he loved the coming home bit just as much, peeling off layers of insulation and hanging them up to dry and then setting about in search of all of the cozy sources of warmth they had available, hot drinks and warm socks and blankets and of course, each other. Somehow, Martin convinced him that even though December didn’t start until next week, there were no real rules or reasons not to watch a Christmas movie. Jon gave him a look, but found himself so easily defeated. He barely put up a fight, after all; they both knew it was all theatrics at this point. He resolved instead to be unbearably picky about _which_ film he’d allow, and despite his weak protests, Martin managed to talk him into _Love, Actually._

“It’s a national treasure, Jon.” 

“I’m sure it is,” he groused. “How long is it?”

“It’ll take us right to when we’ll be wanting to start dinner,” Martin said, conspicuously omitting the actual run time itself. 

They had both long since accepted that part of the appeal of watching cheesy films together was Jon making snide, pedantic comments about plot contrivances and unrealistic character choices just to infuriate Martin enough to pass the time arguing about it. This would all be done from the comfort of each other’s arms, wrapped up and enshrouded in a heavy blanket as all the best rival media critics surely did. 

It couldn’t have been even halfway through when suddenly, Martin grabbed the remote and paused it, turning to Jon before he could even ask what was wrong. 

“You know what?” he said. “I have something for you.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding even more excited than he just had. “I’ll be right back.” 

Martin threw off the blanket and shot up from the couch, hurrying up the stairs and leaving Jon little else to do but stare after him and wrack his brain for some occasion he’d missed. Anniversaries and birthdays were out of the question, so he prepared a gibe about Martin getting far too carried away with Christmas creep, trying to give him gifts the last week of November. 

Martin returned a moment later, holding something behind his back in one hand and looking simultaneously guilty and effervescent. He didn’t even give Jon the opportunity to get his joke out before he started babbling at him.

“I thought I’d do something a little more special than this, but now, I can’t stop thinking about it. You took care of the special one, so I feel like the setting doesn’t really matter this time.”

Jon barely caught up to what he was talking about by the time Martin knelt before the sofa, one hand on Jon’s knee and the other proffering a small black box. It stood proudly open, displaying a shining silver band. 

Jon found himself promptly unable to form a coherent sentence. That problem solved itself as Martin filled the pause. 

“I know I already said I’d marry you,” Martin said with an almost embarrassed smirk. “But I thought I still better ask you, too. Just to be sure.”

“Martin,” he breathed, staring in his crinkled up, smiling eyes.

“So?” Martin said, like a taunt and a challenge and an earnest invitation all at once. “Will _you_ marry _me_?”

Jon shook his head in disbelief, vaguely aware it was a poor choice of gesture given the question he’d been asked. Even then, all he could think to do was shake his head again. 

“You beautiful idiot,” Jon said, reaching to grab his face between both hands. He tugged Martin close so he could smother his smug grin with a kiss, firm and resolute and as far as Jon was concerned, a very clear answer. 

Martin pulled back just a hair and whispered, “So, is that a yes?”

“I don’t answer stupid questions,” Jon said, kissing him again and again until Martin pulled himself up and onto the sofa. He pressed in beside him and leaned into Jon, one hand awkwardly hovering outside their embrace to keep the ring from getting lost between them. 

All of a sudden, Martin seemed to remember himself and pulled back with a distracted hum, drawing the little box close to his chest as if he’d possibly decide to withhold it after all. “Will you _please_ just give me the satisfaction of an affirmative answer?” 

“Fine,” Jon sighed, grinning at him with feigned exasperation. “Yes, Martin. I will marry you. Even though I thought we settled this months ago.” 

He rolled his eyes and clucked his tongue. “Yeah, yeah, I know it was supposed to be your thing but I couldn’t let you have all the fun. Give me your hand.” 

Jon offered it, remembering to give him the left as he’d almost put Martin’s ring on the wrong hand back when he’d proposed. 

Martin took it in his own, running his thumb over Jon’s wrist as he carefully slid the ring onto his finger. 

“I just picked it up last week,” he explained. “I was going to plan something better than this. Nothing over the top, just a dinner out or something, but… I was feeling the spirit, and… and I just got too excited.” 

Jon turned his hand over, admiring the scrollwork flourish that wrapped around the ring just like the one on Martin’s own finger. 

“Oh, darling,” he whispered, rotating it around his finger. “Is it the same as yours?” 

“Yeah. I talked to Georgie about where you got mine and this one is the very same, just silver instead. Or, technically, it’s palladium? I just didn’t think the rose gold was exactly your style but I wanted them to match somewhat.”

Logically, nothing changed by putting a ring on his finger. Still, Jon couldn’t deny something felt fundamentally different having one to match Martin’s, that subtle little signifier that he was loved, speaking for a mutual devotion to anyone who noticed. 

“I love you,” Jon said. “Thank you, Martin.”

“Yeah, well, I love you too,” he said with a playful shrug. “Just wanted everyone to know just by looking at your hand. I reckon your students will sniff it out right away.”

“You’d be right about that,” he said. “There are quite a few I bet will spot it from the very back row.”

Martin laughed and slid his hand under Jon’s, lifting it again to admire it between them.

“God, that’s a nice sight. I didn’t realize how warm and fuzzy it would make me feel to see a ring on your finger like that.”

“I know the feeling,” Jon said, grabbing Martin’s left hand with his other and bringing it to his lips.

Martin shook his head, brushing off the returned affection. 

“Well, how does it feel? Does it fit?”

Jon slipped his hand out of Martin’s and flexed his fingers, now taking note of the physical sensation as the shock and exhilaration wore off.

“It’s going to take some getting used to.” 

“You don’t have to wear it all the time if you don’t want to,” Martin said. “You know, traditions like this are all just made up and they don’t really mean--”

“Martin,” he said, placing his hand along his cheek. “I want to wear it. I’m yours.” 

He huffed, going all red and flustered. “Okay, fine. That’s fine too.” 

At that, Jon swung his legs up over Martin’s lap and pulled him by the shoulders into a kiss. Martin wound his arms around Jon’s back and twisted around him, pulling them both to lean into the plush cushions supporting them. He laughed into Martin’s mouth as he felt him trace his arm until he reached his hand, resting on the new metallic addition to his finger and gently brushing a thumb over it. 

Then, Jon leaned back to regard Martin with chagrin. 

“You know, it’s completely unfair that I couldn’t even surprise you and now you’ve turned around and thoroughly surprised me.” 

“Jon, you _did_ surprise me. I seriously had no clue.”

“Yes, but you, you guessed it right at the last minute and--”

Martin cocked his head. “Face it, love. You might be romantic but I’m _the_ romantic here.” 

“Oh, rude,” Jon grumbled.

Martin laughed. “Look, if I’d planned anything more than this, you might have been on to me. Not my fault I got all charmed by the snow.”

“Who’s fault is it, then?”

“The snow, probably.” 

“Right.” 

“I thought at least you’d have noticed that sparkling wine I got,” Martin said, standing and offering his hand to help Jon up. “It’s the one thing I did prep for celebrating.”

“Well, that’s what you get for spontaneity, I suppose. Warm wine sitting in the cupboard.” 

“What?” Martin gawked at him. “No, Jon, it’s been in the fridge for days. Did you not notice it?”

Jon began to splutter. Clearly, he hadn’t. 

“Wow, good to know I can hide surprises in plain sight. Come on, you,” Martin said, nudging him toward the kitchen. “Let’s pop a bottle to our engagement, now doubly official, yeah?” 

*

“Congratulations, Mr. Sims,” Luisa called from behind him.

Jon lowered his hand from the board and turned to eye her in the back row. He realized that being left-handed meant his newly-adorned hand was on full, prolonged display whenever he wrote on the whiteboard now. Still, he had the wherewithal to play dumb.

“Sorry, what?” 

Luisa just smirked. “Did you get married?”

He laughed and glanced at his ring, as if he’d just remembered its presence. “No, not yet. I got engaged. Well, again. I…” He’d prepared himself for the inevitability of sharing this bit of news, but he still felt suddenly exposed, like he was being asked to bare his soul in front of a room of teenagers he’d only known for a few months. He squared his shoulders and gave an awkward nod. 

“I proposed to my boyfriend a few months ago and he returned the favor yesterday afternoon.”

A chorus of gasps and shouts erupted throughout the classroom. They’d been particularly restless today, having hoped for a snow day but being offered only a late opening instead, so he probably could have anticipated this reaction. 

“You got engaged and you didn’t tell us? When?” Syeda cried, so offended she almost launched herself up and over her desk. 

Jon simply shrugged. “I didn’t think anyone would be particularly interested in my personal life.”

Luisa scoffed. “That’s just because you never tell us anything!”

A mild cacophony rose up, each of the most nosy and curious students talking over each other without a care.

“When are you getting married?”

“Will you still be Mr. Sims?” 

“How long have you been together?”

“Guys, he’s allowed to be private.” 

“How did you meet?” 

Jon raised a hand at the torrent of inquiries, slowing them to a halt. 

“I believe I’ve offered enough personal information for one day and any further questions had best be about Rome.” 

They settled to a buzzing quiet and he returned to writing terms on the board. Just as he opened his mouth to continue his lecture, a voice called, “One more, though?”

He wasn’t even entirely sure which one of them it was. He let out a theatrical sigh and turned back around to face the class.

“Fine.”

“What’s his name?” He could now see that it was Luisa daring to ask the final question after starting this whole inquisition to begin with. 

His instinct was to refuse but all of a sudden, it melted away as he remembered Martin kneeling before him, the image of him laughing at Jon in the snow earlier in the day, all rosy cheeks and foggy breath, his brilliant smile all at once ridiculing Jon and loving him fiercely. 

“His name is Martin,” he said, sounding regrettably soft as an ungainly warmth filled his chest. 

He turned quickly back to the board with a burning face when he heard several endeared coos, certainly in reaction to his embarrassing display of sentiment and not gaining the information of his partner’s name. 

“What’s he like?”

“I meant it when I said one more,” he warned. “Try again tomorrow.”

He immediately regretted it as he heard Luisa say, “Okay.” He knew she would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this makes no sense and im aware of that i can't string coherent moments together anymore for some reason LOL 
> 
> anyway come say hi to me at my [shitty little twitter](https://twitter.com/pantsoflobster)


	43. hoping for an inbetween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets an offer for a job. Martin struggles with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know A. nothing about becoming qualified to be a teacher in the uk and B. nothing about the british library as a workplace and ive obviously made practically everything up. dont worry about it 
> 
> AND - if you haven't seen the comic mothjons did of chapter 16, PLEASE [go show it some love!!!](https://ahhdair.tumblr.com/post/643484614247202816/if-youve-spoken-to-me-for-more-than-about-30) it thoroughly blew me away, and the fact that someone felt compelled to bring a scene of my fic to such beautiful life???? what

Jon thought about texting Martin probably twenty times since he left the school, but every time he tried to put into words what he wanted to tell him, all ability to articulate dropped away completely. He resigned to just explain in person; it would only be an hour or so before Martin got home, anyway. Jon spent that hour sitting on the sofa in silence, staring at the wall and turning over and over the proposal that had been put before him. 

He couldn’t possibly be actually suited to teaching as a career. Substitute teaching was fine for now, of course. No specialized knowledge necessary, merely the ability to sit in a classroom all day, keep students under control and on track with the work left for them by the absent teacher. He learned very early on that the younger grades were _clearly_ not for him. He didn’t have it in him to get on the intellectual level of an eight year-old no matter how hard he tried. The higher grades, though, he could handle. Teens at least had some semblance of developed personalities, could communicate somewhat like adults, and didn’t require much personal attention from him at all. They even seemed to prefer a quiet, detached substitute like himself, and Jon didn’t mind letting them get away with minor shenanigans to a point.

Then, he’d accidentally backed into this long-term substitute position for a Year 10 history teacher who was getting on in age and struggling with her health. He’d already sat in for her several times when she asked him if he’d be willing to take on her classroom for an extended period while she recovered from a procedure. Hopefully no less than a month, she said, just long enough to get back on her feet. 

He liked her class, to be honest. The school itself was a horrid, posh thing, so the students were among the best behaved he’d had in his survey of the schools of Greater London. At first, he’d written most of them off as overly privileged and pompous, but the more time he spent with them, the more their personalities shone through, the more they seemed to get attached to him, asking needling questions about his life and interests. A few of them even opened up to him about struggles at home if they managed to trap him one on one after class. He often felt out of his depth, but quickly found that he didn’t mind it nearly as much as he thought he would. He might even miss some of them when their teacher came back. 

But one month turned into two and then it started to look more like four to six, and then this afternoon, the head of the history department had caught Jon in the empty classroom getting ready to leave and asked him to join her in the headmaster’s office for a chat. Of course, he spent the entire walk up the hall wracking his brain for what he’d done wrong, settling on the probability that he’d skewed too left in his commentary. Word of his point of view had probably trickled back to a loud-mouthed parent, who then complained to the headmaster, and he was to be excused from the position and replaced with someone more in line with the school’s values. 

That wasn’t it at all, apparently. 

The teacher he was standing in for had decided against coming back to work, instead taking an early retirement as her condition hadn’t improved like she’d hoped. The position would need to be filled, and since he’d already spent so much time getting acquainted with the curriculum and the school, they were willing to assist with the logistics of him obtaining qualified teacher status so he could eventually take on the job fully.

“The students like you,” the headmaster said. “We’ve been impressed the way you rose to the challenge as Mrs. Hendrick’s return became less certain.” 

Jon couldn’t help but be reminded of the last time he was offered a promotion he’d have never thought himself qualified for. 

He’d never once considered teaching full-time was on the table for him. As he nodded and thanked them for the opportunity, promising to get back to them about it soon, all he wanted was to sit down with Martin and tell him everything. A whole tube ride of half-typing texts before backspacing them led him to now, sitting catatonic on the couch with an overflowing mind. 

He whipped his head towards the door when he heard Martin’s key in the lock, steeling himself to greet him normally and ask about his day before he launched into his dilemma. Then, the door swung open a bit more forcefully than he’d expected and Martin stormed in, dropping his bag unceremoniously on the ground by the coat rack. 

“I hate it,” he spat, stomping into the living room and beginning to pace around the coffee table in front of Jon. “I hate it. They’re such a bunch of sniveling, pretentious try-hards who think everyone around them is completely stupid. Every day is a nightmare I’m just waiting for the end of, and I _know_ I shouldn’t complain, because it’s not that bad and I’ve lived _actual_ nightmares, and this is _nothing_ , but I’m just--I’m just so… God, it’s so stupid! I should just suck it up and deal with it. Christ.” 

“Hey,” Jon tried, grappling to catch up with his ranting and keep himself from responding the wrong way. “Did something happen today?”

Martin rounded on him and halted in place, flailing his hands out in emphasis.

“Honestly? No! I just--I just _hate_ this stupid job. It’s so… I don’t fit in, the work is absolutely _inane_ , and everyone just cares _so much_ because they all think they’re going to rocket to the top of the food chain if they just make it clear that _they’re_ the best and smartest compared to everyone else, and--and it just feels so pointless and I just can’t _stand_ the people. It’s not everyone, I mean like--you know, I’ve made some friends, but none of them work in my department. I have to just hope I run into them in the break room for a single moment of reprieve from the snobs I work with directly. They just make me feel like shit even though I know that--if they even _knew_ half of what I’ve done, maybe they wouldn’t be _so_ goddamn condescending.” 

Jon sat staring at him, his own stifled news lodged in his throat as he tried to shove it back down for now. 

“I’m sorry, darling,” he said with a helpless shake of his head. “Come here.” 

He extended a hand but Martin swept past it, dropping into the cushion beside him in a huff. He sat quietly for a moment, eyes squeezed shut, breathing deeply and evenly. 

“It’s fine. It’s whatever. It’s just a stupid job, and it’s the last thing I should be this bothered by. God, who’d have thought it would be this hard to get used to a _normal_ shitty job? You’d think I’d be happy with anything after being literally terrorized for years at the last one.” He punctuated this with a humorless laugh, which Jon returned in kind. 

He didn't touch him yet, just waited for Martin to make the next move. Jon found himself at a loss for words, all the benign comforts he’d usually spout getting shoved aside by the one thing he wanted to tell him trying to claw its way out of his throat. 

Martin glanced at him and must have seen the conflict on his face. He let out a regretful groan. “God. Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come in yelling like that. Or I could have at least given you some warning that I’d be coming in hot. Are you okay?” 

He froze. “No, no, it’s not… I mean, yes, I’m fine, it’s just--ah…”

Martin turned toward him, pulling a leg up on the sofa so he was facing him entirely. “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

Jon quickly scanned Martin’s expression and posture. He seemed to be cooling down, maybe enough that he wouldn’t feel brushed off or overwhelmed if Jon told him what was on his mind. He just couldn’t resist any longer. 

“Nothing’s wrong. Well, maybe--I don’t know. I actually… got some news today.”

Martin straightened up at that. “What? What is it?”

“It’s--this long-term substitute position I’ve taken, well… The teacher has actually decided to resign after all. Her health took a turn for the worse and… The headmaster and the head of the history department called me in this afternoon to… To sort of offer me the job.”

Martin stared at him in stunned silence for a moment. “Sort of?”

“Well, it wouldn’t exactly be a full-on teaching job right away. I’d have to pass some exams and I’d be sharing responsibilities with some other teachers until I’d gotten enough experience, learning on the job, so to speak, but then I’d be an actual teacher. A full-time… teacher.” 

Jon turned to look at him, cataloging each twitch of his face as the information sank in. 

“Oh,” Martin said, leaning back into the sofa. “Oh, wow.” 

He was hit with a pang of regret. Maybe he should have waited, given him some more time. “Yes, I… I’m sorry. That’s probably not exactly the kind of thing you want to hear about after the day you’ve had.” 

Martin shook his head. “No, Jon, that’s not--I’m thrilled for you, of course I am.” 

Jon met that with a single, solemn nod. 

“Well. Thank you.” 

They then averted their eyes from each other, sitting side by side for a long moment. Jon left the ball in Martin’s court again, despite how severely he wanted to beg him to hear what he was thinking, anything at all to guide Jon’s decision. Eventually, Martin spoke up again, dragging a hand back through his own hair. 

“So… Wow. You’re going to be a real teacher.”

“Oh, I--I mean, I’m not sure. I don’t know if I should.”

Martin tensed at that. “What?”

“I haven’t decided if I’ll take it yet.” 

“What? Why not?”

“Well, I wanted to talk it over with you, for one,” he said.

Martin’s eyes went wild. “Well, what did you think I was going to say? Obviously, you should take it! That’s incredible, Jon. You got offered a teaching job without even trying to get one. And it’s a _really_ nice school. Why would you possibly turn it down?” 

Jon heaved a sigh, knowing where this was about to go. He could have guessed Martin would be in full support without considering all the ways in which he was unfit for such a role. He wasn’t going to like the way Jon framed it, but he couldn’t find any other words to get his concerns across. 

“It’s… Martin, less than a year ago, I was a classifiable monster. All I’m trying to do is feel like I’m, I’m allowed to be a part of society and I’m just going to skip the atonement and--and start acting like I have the right to be in a position of authority? Like I could be trusted to be responsible for people’s children?”

Martin’s mouth fell open slightly before it snapped closed again. “Jon,” he said, curt and biting. “You’re being handed the perfect opportunity and you’re considering giving it up because of _guilt?_ I would kill for something like that just to just fall in my lap.”

Jon bristled and felt something sharp on his tongue, something he knew was unfairly cutting. At the very least, he knew he had to try to leave _that_ part of himself behind. 

“It’s not perfect,” he said instead. “Since when was teaching history my purpose in life? It’s never even been a consideration until today.” 

“I’m just saying, Jon, not everyone gets this kind of conveniently-offered opportunity. Not everyone has an Oxford education on their CV making them look automatically trustworthy and capable without having to prove it first.” 

Jon felt an immediate sense of bitter regret for curtailing his own tongue when Martin was willing to come out with such a barb. Instinct armed him with something equally as hurtful to sling back, an awful, targeted remark in mindless retaliation. 

It only took a split second’s thought to recognize that he didn’t really want to hurt Martin at all. And if he’d learned anything, he knew Martin never truly wanted to hurt him, either. 

“You know,” Jon said, keeping his tone measured but stern. “Me getting this offer doesn’t have anything to do with how unhappy you are with your own job.” 

“No, no it doesn’t, but it’s--” Martin cut himself off, closed his eyes, and took another deep breath. “No. No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m not actually upset with you, it’s my own situation that’s--it’s just frustrating.”

Jon nodded his understanding. A tense silence stretched on for what felt like far too long, and he couldn’t quite tell if Martin was gearing up for another outburst or not. This wasn't how Jon expected this discussion to go, even though he knew how much Martin was struggling with his own job. He should have known it might hit a nerve, should have thought about what it might feel like for him to watch Jon getting another unforeseen promotion when Martin himself had to bend over backwards his whole life to earn minor shreds of approval wherever he could get them. 

Jon upturned his palm and rested it on his knee, relieved that it didn’t take any further cajoling for Martin to rest his own in it. He laced their fingers together, running his thumb over Martin’s knuckle. 

“You know, there’s nothing holding you at that place,” Jon said. “And if there was, we’d have a much bigger problem on our hands.”

Martin huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I hope I’d be able to sniff out another cursed workplace. Been there, done that.” 

Jon gave his hand a squeeze. 

“I know it was exciting to get in with the British Library,” he tried, treading carefully. “But if it’s not how you imagined it being, then… There’s no reason to keep putting yourself through that. You could find something else. I know you could.”

Martin reluctantly pulled his hand away to rub at his own eyes, digging the heels of his palms into them in frustration.

“It’s just… I still don’t have a degree, Jon. That hasn’t changed. The only thing that got me a decent job before was a pile of lies, and I don’t even think those lies would have worked in normal circumstances. And then I got this, and it felt like I cheated the system again somehow, but it turns out the British Library is a pretty big place with all these little bullshit jobs and the ones I’m technically qualified for aren’t the cushy, quiet gigs I had at the Institute.” 

“I know.” 

“And god, the job searching is even _worse._ It’s just all this stuff I’m not remotely qualified for on paper that I _know_ I could do just as well as anybody, and then all the bending over backwards to make myself _not_ sound like a thirty-one year old dropout.” 

“I know. I know, darling, but you know you’re not--”

“Save it, Jon,” he said, sounding more exhausted than bitter at this point. “ _I_ know it, but it doesn’t make it any easier.” 

Jon nodded and then something occurred to him, a different route around Martin’s dilemma. 

“How much of the money do you still have?” 

Martin looked at him strangely, but he knew exactly what Jon was talking about.

“What?”

“Whatever you took from Peter’s accounts.”

Martin blushed in embarrassment, almost certainly to cover up the lurking satisfaction he actually felt for his successful act of righteous embezzlement. Martin was just as proud of himself as Jon was utterly enamored when he told him what he’d done over the months he worked for Peter. 

“All of it, pretty much,” he muttered.

“Right. So… There’s no real reason to make yourself miserable at a job you hate right now. You’ve by all means earned a break. You could work on your poetry, or…” 

“Yeah, but I also _hate_ not doing anything,” Martin argued. “I need--I need something. I couldn’t just sit around all day tinkering in my notebooks like I’m some mid-century housewife while you go off being the breadwinner every day.” 

“What about school?” Jon offered, at risk of opening a different can of worms.

Martin blinked at him. “Like… getting a degree?” 

“Have you ever thought about it?” 

Martin let out an overblown, miserable sigh. 

“Oh, I don’t know, Jon,” he said, tossing his head back against the couch again. “I was never any good at school, and I definitely don’t think I could keep up with a university-level class now, I--”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean? I haven’t been in school in fifteen years, and I--” 

“Martin, I think you might have a warped view of your own academic abilities.”

Martin continued to gawk at him and Jon reached to draw his hand into his own again. 

“If you’ll take my unsolicited opinion,” Jon said. “I think you were _told_ you couldn’t make it in higher education. But I hope that now, you’d trust my opinion over whoever tried to tear you down over the years.”

“And… what’s that opinion?” Martin asked, tentatively stepping into Jon’s obvious praise trap. 

“That you’re utterly brilliant,” he said. “And resourceful and adaptable and strong, and you’d smash a Bachelor's degree so thoroughly that you might even end up considering that Masters in parapsychology after all.” 

Martin laughed. “I don’t know about parapsychology.” 

“No, hopefully not,” Jon said with a small smile. “It could be anything, though. Anything you wanted to study.” 

Martin bobbed his head from side to side, putting on a show of consideration though Jon knew he wasn’t about to budge on this. 

“It also just sort of feels pointless, you know?” he said, splaying his hands out in front of him. “I mean in that--look, I get that for some people, it might be what they have to do to feel okay, to keep, keep doing the things they’ve always thought they were supposed to do, keep moving down the regular pipeline... But god, it’s just all bullshit, isn’t it? I don’t think I can stomach putting my head down and going along with it much more.” 

“That’s completely understandable,” Jon said.

“It’s like, I’ve gotten this far without a degree, and forgive me if I don’t feel particularly keen to start playing the game at this point. I know you’re an academic at heart, but it’s not necessarily the answer for everyone.”

“Alright,” he said with a nod. “That makes sense.” He still thought Martin was perhaps putting a bit too much weight on the authority of “academia”, but he could tell that particular avenue was closed for now. 

“Well, I think it’s worth asking. What do you want?”

“Like, in general?” Martin asked. 

“Well, yes. If you could do anything, what would feel worth your time?”

Martin’s lip formed into a little pout as he thought. Jon felt compelled to kiss that look right off his face, but it quite clearly wasn’t the time or place.

“I really don’t know, Jon,” he sighed. “You know, before all the shit, I really didn’t mind the work at the Institute. I liked the library. The archives weren’t even that bad early on. You know, when it felt like a stuffy old office job. Boss hated me, but at least he was cute.” Jon rolled his eyes but let him continue. “What I mean is, I just like doing something that makes me feel useful. Even if I didn’t really understand what the point was for most of it, I always felt like I was playing a role that someone else needed done in order to do whatever it was _they_ needed to do. Not that--I get that sounds a lot more sinister in context, but… That’s what I thought this job would be, but it’s just not.”

Jon laid a hand on his leg, giving him a moment of quiet to sort through his thoughts. 

“I don’t really care what I do right now,” he said eventually. “Maybe I’ll figure out what would actually feel fulfilling somewhere down the road, but right now, I just don’t want to waste my time working with people who make me feel like shit.”

“I don’t want that for you either,” Jon said, knowing full well that he’d once been one of those people.

“And the thing is, I don’t hate the place,” Martin said with a shrug. “I think it’s… cool to be a part of? And maybe it could be better. I don’t know. Maybe I could ask Lena if she knows of any openings in other departments or something.”

“That’s definitely an option.” 

“Yeah,” Martin said, with a half-hearted nod. He then nudged Jon’s shoulder with his own. “What about you, then?”

Jon was silent for a moment while he waded his way back to his own quandary. Martin wasn’t actually turning the broader question back on him, he knew that much. He was asking him about the teaching job. 

“I just want to help,” Jon said, quiet and sincere. “I spent far too long hurting. Or at best, just serving myself, and… I don’t know, I didn’t really have a clear idea of what that would look like, but now… Now this.” 

“Yeah,” Martin said. 

“You know, when Georgie suggested substitute teaching, I thought it would be temporary by nature. I didn’t even think a school would be a place I’d feel drawn to stay, but…” 

Jon closed his eyes and thought of the last few months, the tentative bonds he’d formed with a handful of students and what it would be like to have a whole school year to get to know them better. He thought of how sometimes he felt like he’d actually made some sort of impact, even in the smallest of ways, when he spoke and they smiled and he could tell they felt listened to, at the very least. 

He thought of the things he heard them say about the time the world changed, how many of them barely remembered what they saw and how many of them recalled it in gruesome detail, how darkly it played across the faces of the quiet ones when someone got a little too deep into their own experiences. 

“I see it in classrooms, Martin,” he began slowly. “They’re hurting. They don’t understand what happened, just like anyone, and the parents tell them all sorts of things and then they come to school and trade all this conflicting information, some of it rooted in science grasping at--at nonexistent straws and some of it’s horrid religious dogma, and they’re so confused. It’s not that I think _I_ can change that. I can’t go set the record straight. I don’t even think the truth would help, but I… I don’t know. Maybe a school isn’t a bad place to plant myself for now. If I want to help.” 

He dared to look back at Martin and found him smiling softly, his previous frustration and bitterness drained away. Jon raised his brow in question.

“Not a bad place at all,” he said. “I think you could do a lot of good, Jon.”

“I don’t know about a _lot--_ ”

“You could, though. More than you think.”

Jon sighed and Martin’s hand came up to gently cradle the back of his neck, directing him to meet his eyes. 

“I’m so proud of you.” 

“Oh, stop it,” Jon muttered. “I haven’t done anything yet.” 

Martin tugged at his neck, imploring Jon to rest his head on his shoulder. He went without a fight, running his hand down Martin’s thigh to rest on his knee.

“I’m proud of you too, you know,” he said, twisting his head to look up at him. “You know how much you’re worth and you know that’s not being recognized where you are.”

Martin rolled his eyes, but then huffed a small laugh. “Look at us, we’re ridiculous. We might have to start giving ourselves some credit or something if we keep doing all this self-discovery.” 

Jon simply gave a noncommittal hum. 

Martin let out a big exhale and rested his head on top of Jon’s. “You know, we’re going to be fine. I’m really sorry I came in all heated and overshadowed your big news.”

“Not at all,” Jon said, deeply earnest. “I… We both have a lot to think about, and there’s no one I’d rather talk it through with than you.” 

Martin’s arm tightened around his shoulders. “Same for me.” 

Jon then curled around him entirely, winding his arms around his neck and pressing him back into the cushions. He felt Martin nestle his nose into his hair, tickling his scalp with his breath. 

“I love you,” Jon said, muffled by Martin’s shoulder. 

“I love you, too,” he said, an equally tender murmur. “We’re figuring it out, yeah?

Jon nodded, rubbing his cheek up against the scratchy wool of Martin’s jumper. “I hope so.” 

“Look,” Martin said, pulling back to see his face. “Why don’t we go to the pub for dinner? I’ll buy you a drink with my dirty Lukas money, we’ll celebrate your job offer and my… whatever the hell it is I have going on.”

Jon laughed, feeling the tension melt away at the prospect of their favorite corner table at the pub down the block. “That sounds lovely, darling.” 

They got up and found their shoes, wasting no time embarking into the evening and whatever else laid ahead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoilers martin does end up moving departments at the library to something much better and i have no idea what the timeline is on any of this
> 
> and now to spend the rest of my day off alternating between trying to apply for jobs and feeling guilty about not applying to enough jobs :) 
> 
> come talk to me at my [shitty little twitter](https://twitter.com/pantsoflobster)


	44. soothe me daily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not easy for Martin to let himself be taken care of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sick fic but make it jmart  
> (that means it's full of guilt and resistance to being taken care of)

Martin hated getting sick with a passion. It wasn’t just about the discomfort of it. Honestly, depending on the symptoms, it barely fazed him. He could handle some sniffles and could fight through aches and chills, laughing off the way a stuffy nose made him sound when he talked. But those things weren’t the real problem. 

It was the fact that it took him out of commission, reduced his stamina and capability to do the things he needed to do and rendered him pathetic and useless. When he was taking care of his mum, he couldn’t afford to be pathetic and useless. Obviously, she was sicker than him day in and day out. He had no excuse to let a little cold stop him from doing what she needed from him, and certainly no excuse to complain or seek sympathy. He’d also want to keep away from her if he was contagious since her immune system was so delicate, making it even harder to care for her. It always felt like an unsolvable conundrum with no one option better than another. 

He’d trained himself into a sort of ambivalence about it over the years. If he woke up with a sore throat or the first signs of a cough, he’d pop some vitamin C, shove some lozenges into his pockets, and just get on with it. He smiled politely at the pity from people at work though it made his blood boil, telling him he deserved a break and offering all these solutions like he was helpless. He didn’t need anyone making the tea or offering to run and get him something warm for lunch, he just wanted to get through the day and go home to wallow where no one could see him. 

The first time he got sick since he started living with Jon, it was in the dead of winter, well past the holidays when the cold no longer felt novel and romantic, just bitter and exhausting. He woke up with an ache in his throat, far past the mere tickle it had been the night before. He could feel in his bones that the signs he’d been silently pleading with his body to be nothing were, in fact, something and could no longer be ignored.

Though it couldn’t have been later than six, Jon was already awake and moving about, having taken a substitute job at a school with a particularly early start time in a neighborhood much farther from their flat than he usually went for. When he came over to kiss him goodbye, Martin cleared his throat as much as possible so he didn’t sound extremely pathetic when he muttered that he was going to call out of work sick. 

He saw the look in Jon’s eyes, speaking for his immediate concern that there was something more to be worried about, a lurking weight waiting for him to leave so it could smother Martin in a blanket of malicious fog.

“It’s just a head cold or something, I promise,” he told him.

“Right,” Jon said, running a hand back through Martin’s sleep-mussed hair. “Well, will you be alright on your own?”

“Of course,” he said with as much confidence as he could muster. 

“You’ll text me if you need anything?”

“Sure, but I’ll really be okay.” 

“You know, if you need something, you can call Georgie. She’d--”

“I’m fine, Jon,” he insisted. “I can handle myself.”

Jon bent over him and pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of his head. “Alright, then. I love you.”

Martin gave him a reassuring smile as he backed away from the bed to leave. “I love you, too.”

He really _was_ fine. It’s not like he was bed ridden. He slept a bit more and woke mid-morning, showered and then spent the day puttering around the flat, napping and reading in turns. He took the opportunity to look into houses for sale in quieter neighborhoods, a bit of a secret project of his he’d taken to whenever Jon wasn’t hovering over his shoulder. Honestly, it wasn’t half bad for a lazy day off. 

By the late afternoon, though, he could feel the exhaustion that had driven him to the several fleeting naps he’d managed throughout the day morph into something a bit more permanent, the kind of tiredness that made him want to get in bed for the night before he’d even had dinner. 

So despite not having much of an appetite, he started on a favorite soup of his, one he always used to make when he first taught himself to cook for himself and Mum. Much like tea, he’d developed a sort of mythology around soup as simply being what you provided to someone under the weather, even if it wasn’t the sort of sick that could be soothed by warmth and broth. 

He’d only just added the rice to the broth when he heard the door to the flat squeak open and fall shut. The sounds of Jon hanging up his coat and shuffling off his shoes filled him with a mild anxiety he couldn’t quite place. For some reason, he hoped he’d be back in bed by the time Jon got home.

“Martin,” Jon said, voice full of pity as he made his way into the kitchen. “You made _yourself_ soup?”

There it was; he bristled at that immediately. He had no desire to do this dance with Jon. 

“What’s wrong with that?” he countered. 

“You shouldn’t have to make yourself soup. You’d never make me make my own soup if I was ill.”

“Well, you didn’t make me,” Martin said. “You weren’t home yet.”

“But I’m home now,” Jon cried. “You could have waited. Or texted me to come back early. Or let me know you were hungry and I would have brought something back so you didn’t have to suffer the wait while I stumbled around the kitchen.”

Martin chuckled, doing his best to keep it from turning to a hacking cough. “I appreciate it, love. But it’s really no bother. This is just what I always do.”

Jon leaned on the counter beside him, staring right through his skin from under that furrowed brow. “Yes, but… don’t you think you deserve a change?”

“Jon, it’s really not a big deal.” 

Jon sighed and crossed his arms, his gaze darting away toward the floor for a quiet moment. “I wish you’d have told me if you needed help.”

“I didn’t, though. I’m perfectly fine!” Martin protested. “I’m not that sick. I’m perfectly capable of making my own meals. I only stayed home so I didn’t go spreading it round my whole office.” 

He kept his eyes trained on the pot, aimlessly stirring as if he was doing anything besides preventing the soup from reaching a reasonable simmer. Eventually, Jon spoke up again. 

“You know I’m just trying to do this right.”

Martin glanced at his boyfriend, standing with his arms folded awkwardly against his chest. He had that look on his face like he’d gotten poor marks on a test he spent weeks studying for. 

He dropped the spoon on the counter and turned toward him with a feeble sigh. “Jon, I’m just… I’m just used to this, alright? I know how to take care of myself because I’ve never really had another option.” 

“Well, now you do,” he asserted with well-meaning indignance. 

“Yeah, but… You’ve got stuff to do, too. It’s not like you can just take off a whole day to make me soup.”

Jon gave an irritable little huff. “Can’t imagine that takes a whole day.”

“No, no, but you know what I mean.”

“And,” he continued. “My schedule is entirely up to me. If you’d have let me know that you needed me, I wouldn’t have taken a job for today.” 

“But I didn’t need you, I just needed to rest. I was fine.”

He grabbed his spoon again and returned to stirring. He didn’t know what else to do with Jon standing and staring at him like that. 

“Look, I--” Martin felt it about to come out of his mouth, that thing he hated to say, and stopped it before it escaped. He’d always been hyper aware of wielding sickness as leverage, some kind of excuse to get out of things he didn’t want to deal with, especially since his whole thesis so far had been that he wasn’t that bad off after all. 

“Can we not fight about this right now?” he snapped. He’d almost said it prefixed by, _I’m not feeling well._

“I’m not trying to fight,” Jon said. “I just want you to let me take care of you sometimes.”

“I do, all the time!”

“Well, why not right now?”

“Because I’m _fine_ , Jon. Can we drop it?”

Jon let his arms fall to the side, head cocked with a venomless scowl as he stepped forward. He leaned up to kiss him, but Martin tossed his head to the side.

“Jon, come on. You’ll get yourself sick.” 

He scoffed. “I doubt it. I never get sick.” 

“Uh, yeah, back when you had an evil supernatural parasite protecting you. I don’t think that stands anymore, love.”

“I rarely got sick before that, mind you.”

“Oh, come on,” Martin said. “I’m supposed to believe you didn’t just ignore all symptoms until you didn’t feel them anymore and then convince yourself you were never sick all along?”

Jon screwed up his face, baffled and offended. “I genuinely don’t believe I did that.” 

“If I asked Georgie if you ever got sick in uni, what would she say?”

At this, Jon took a silent moment to consider. “I don’t want to hear what kind of propaganda she’d pedal.” 

“You know how that sounds, right?” he said with an amused grin creeping in. 

Jon sank back on his heels, looking like a petulant child. 

“Martin, I’ll be fine. Just kiss me, I can’t bear it.” 

He wheezed an incredulous laugh. “You can’t _bear_ it?”

Jon reached for him and pawed gently at his sides, beginning to look more pitiful than disgruntled now. “No, I--a day hasn’t gone by since--that you haven’t kissed me and I’m not about to break that streak now because you think _I_ might get sick.” 

“You kissed me this morning before you left,” Martin said.

Jon rolled his eyes. “That was on the head and you were barely awake.”

“God, fine,” he said, against his better judgement. “But if you get sick, I’m not going to wait on you hand and foot.”

A victorious grin spread across Jon’s face as he leaned up once more. Martin let him press a brief kiss to his lips, keeping them firmly closed as if that could keep any transmissible germs locked away.

Before pulling back entirely, Jon looked up at him with a glint in his eye. 

“Somehow, I doubt that.” 

“Alright, you dick,” Martin said with no bite and a playful shove at his shoulder.

“What, because I’m right?”

“I’m _ill_ ,” he said. He could brandish his sickly state like that only if it was clearly a joke. “You can’t be a dick to me when I’m ill.” He turned his attention back to his simmering pot. 

“Mm, no, thank you for reminding me,” Jon said, winding his arms around Martin’s elbow, severely inhibiting his ability to continue his very necessary stirring. “You should be in bed, and I should be serving you soup and tea and reading you poetry or something.”

“You’d read me poetry?” Martin asked, peering over at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“Only because you’re sick. Don’t get used to it.” 

“Oh, how sweet you are.”

Jon gave his arm a tug. “Would you shut up and get back in bed?” 

“This is almost done,” he said. “I’m just waiting for the rice to cook through.”

“Well, surely I can do that. I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”

“Jon…” 

He clearly wasn’t listening to Martin’s half-hearted protest as he set about filling the kettle and bringing down two mugs from the cabinet. “What kind of tea would you like?”

“Jon, seriously. I don’t want to--”

“Martin,” he warned. “Please. Just let me. If you have to do some sort of mental gymnastics to convince yourself this is a favor to me, then so be it. Whatever it takes to get you back in bed.” 

Martin threw his head back with a miserable groan. He knew Jon was stubborn, but he’d never considered how he might use that against him in a situation that only served Martin himself. 

“Fine,” he said, too exhausted to keep up with this particular battle. ”But this needs to simmer for at least ten more minutes or the rice will be undercooked.” 

“Got it. Ten minutes.”

“Honestly, it’s probably less than that. There’s no point in me--”

“Darling,” Jon said, a graveness mixing with the overwhelming warmth in his tone, and Martin found himself simultaneously charmed and miffed that he could melt his resolve with a single word like that. It didn’t help that Jon’s mouth quirked up a bit, indicating that he’d noticed the effect the pet name had.

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” Martin grumbled, turning on his heel and making for the bedroom so he no longer had to see Jon’s smug little face.

He got back into bed, finding himself reluctantly cozy and relieved to be off his feet. It was nice, he supposed. Maybe that had been part of the dread of getting sick all along, knowing there was no one to turn around and take care of him when he needed it. But… there was now, wasn’t there? God, he still wasn’t used to it, but by the sound of it, Jon wasn’t going to make it easy. Of course, he was going at this full throttle, leaving Martin very little room to acclimate to the comfort of being cared for. 

He could see how it probably felt to Jon to have him shove off all his help when he’d personally come so far in his caretaking abilities. He made such deeply concerted efforts every day to show Martin he was thinking of him and loved him just as much as he loved Jon, and he deserved opportunities to flaunt that. So perhaps it was going to take some getting used to, but maybe it wasn’t so bad getting sick with a loving partner by his side. 

Martin fully expected Jon to get impatient with the soup and bring him a bowl full of mildly crunchy rice, but he didn’t return for a solid ten minutes at which point he proudly marched into the bedroom, bowl in one hand and a mug in the other. He set the tea down on the bedside table, which by the scent that Martin could just barely detect through his congestion was chamomile with a bit of honey. 

“Something tells me this is going to be an ongoing struggle,” Jon said, perching on the edge of the bed once he’d handed the bowl off to Martin, wrapped in a tea towel so it didn’t burn his hands. 

“What is?”

“Getting you to see that you’re allowed to be the one in need of care sometimes.”

“Jon, I let you do things for me all the time.” 

He ran his hand over the duvet where it covered Martin’s knees. “Yes, but… Don’t think I haven’t considered why you’re so resistant to it, specifically when you’re ill.” 

Martin opened his mouth to protest, but gave a simple nod instead. “Look, I--” But Jon held up a gentle hand to quiet him. 

“We don’t need to talk about it,” Jon said. “Especially not right now, but just know I…” His face then made some vague maneuver, punctuated with a roll of his eyes. “For lack of a better phrase, I see you.” 

Martin huffed a small laugh, a pervasive warmth encompassing his chest as if it was leeching up from the bowl that had been so lovingly placed in his hands. 

“Thank you, love,” he muttered. “I appreciate it, I really do.” 

Jon leaned in carefully over the hot bowl between them, angling to press a kiss to his brow. Martin instinctively yanked his head back, to Jon’s chagrin. 

“Look, I can work on letting you take care of me, but I don’t think part of the deal should be letting you willingly catch whatever I have by refusing to stay away from my face.” 

Jon hopped up from the bed so he could grab his cheeks without jostling the soup and quickly smacked his lips to Martin’s forehead. “There are some things I’m not willing to sacrifice.”

“That’s well stupid, I’m just saying,” Martin called as Jon made his escape from the bedroom. “If you think you’re going to be able to hide it from me when you come down with this in a few days, you’d be dead wrong.” 

He returned a few minutes later having fully ignored Martin’s warning and crawled into bed beside him with a cup of tea. It was still early for dinner and Jon wasn’t quite hungry enough for his own bowl of soup just yet. 

Jon tangled their feet together under the covers and told him all about the class he’d had today, a Year 10 English class in the midst of reading _Lord of the Flies_ who tried to convince him they were meant to read the chapter aloud together rather than answer the discussion questions the teacher left. Martin listened and giggled at how baffled Jon was by the way teens communicated, with him and with each other. He reported back arcane slang he’d learned as if it was some newly discovered alien language and Martin gleefully called him an old man. Jon knew he had no room to refute that. 

When he set aside his empty bowl beside his mug on the side table, Martin sank down beneath the covers until he could curl up with his head on Jon’s thigh, staring up at him devilishly from the odd angle. 

“Now, I heard something about a poetry reading…?”

Jon’s eyes widened as he remembered what he’d inadvertently signed up for earlier, followed by a put-upon groan. “Yes, yes, fine. What would you like to hear?” 

Martin grinned. “Will you get _Leaves of Grass?_ It’s on the shelf in the living room.” 

Jon gave him a long, considering look through narrowed eyes. “That should be fine. I’ll be right back.” 

When Martin woke, it was pitch dark in their bedroom and he felt like he’d slept a full night and then some. He checked his phone to realize he must have fallen asleep shortly after Jon begrudgingly started reading him Walt Whitman, though the second he began, he poured his dormant sense for theatrics into every word. He’d already slept a solid eight hours and it was only three in the morning. Martin could barely remember listening to a full poem, but he did remember the rich tide of Jon’s voice filling his consciousness and laughing whenever he wrinkled his nose at a phrase he found distasteful for whatever reason. 

Of course, Jon was sleeping nearly nose to nose with him, displaying absolutely no regard for his proximity to a sick person. Martin thought he should probably turn over and give him some space, but another part of him asserted that at this rate, Jon was practically _trying_ to catch his cold. If he hadn’t gotten it already, no difference would be made by scooting over a few inches for the next few hours until morning. He propped himself up on some pillows to alleviate the congestion and corralled Jon’s sleeping form to nestle into his side.

And when Jon woke up with a sore throat that weekend, Martin tried to not sound so vindicated when he said, “I told you so,” and started searching for new soup recipes on his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe it’s the approaching end that has me thinking so much about their first year… it’s just so sweet and filled with so much figuring-out and learning to live together and understanding what are boundaries and what are self-denial mechanisms…… ugh 
> 
> come talk to me at my [shitty little twitter](https://twitter.com/pantsoflobster)


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